The Girl of Two Worlds
by The Patriette
Summary: Fifteen years have passed since the Man of Steel defeated General Zod. Now 12-year-old Claire finds her peaceful life disrupted not only by a sinister plan to take over her home-city, but a secret that will change the way she looks at herself-and her parents-forever. Rated T for future violence, just to be on the safe side.
1. Claire Kent: Aspiring Author

**I saw Man of Steel a couple of months ago and came up with this little story right before Christmas. I hope to finish it over Christmas vacation, so I thought that publishing it on would give me some extra motivation to finish it before I get back to work!**

**Just a couple of notes. 1) I obviously do not own Superman or Lois Lane. 2) This is Man of Steel universe so I'm envisioning Henry Cavill and Amy Adams in their respective roles. 3) I haven't read ****_any_**** of the comic books though, so I just made up most of Lois' family history in future chapters. 4) In case anyone wonders, the reason I didn't make Lex Luthor the villain in this story is because I figure he'll be the villain in ****_Man of Steel 2_****, and that would take place before Claire was born.**

**Hope y'all enjoy this first chapter...more to come, hopefully I'll post a new chapter every day or so :)**

* * *

The girls of Grand Park Academy were a fresh-faced, fun-loving, wholesome bunch, and twelve-year-old Claire Kent was the undisputed leader of their pack. She held court in the cafeteria one chilly November afternoon, bent over a legal pad and making notes with all the concentration of a benevolent ruler completely and blissfully unaware of her own power and authority.

"Okay, so we're still planning on donating to the Salvation Army canteen," she said, checking off a box.

"Of course!" Kellie Peterson said, eating the last of her sugar cookie with great tidiness. "We always do-and the people there are so nice. They're always glad to have whatever we can give them."

"Our family bought a whole bunch of new coats this year," Ellen Lowry said. "My mom says I can give our old ones away."

"And remember, if you don't have any extra clothes they can always use food," Claire said.

"You must have a lot of hand-me-downs this year," Tasha Clarkson giggled. "You've sprouted up like a weed."

Claire blushed. "Yeah, but they still aren't enough to fill a garbage bag. Dahlia, you probably don't have many this year either."

Dahlia shook her ginger-red head. "No, I pass most of my clothes down to my little sisters."

"Then just bring canned food," Claire said encouragingly. "Miss Susan at the canteen says that's just as good and plenty useful."

She glanced up and saw the school shuttle park beside the front door. It was the sign that the end of the meeting had come and all the girls grabbed their backpacks accordingly, chattering as they filed out of the building and into the small bus.

Claire and Kellie sat together, their custom ever since they were in the first grade room seven years ago. They couldn't have made a stranger pair, physically speaking. Claire was tall and pretty, with big blue eyes and tight brown curls spiraling to her shoulders. Kellie was shorter, plumper, with straight golden hair and a heavy dusting of freckles across her face.

"Congratulations on your win," Kellie whispered, squeezing Claire's hand.

Claire smiled broadly, revealing deep dimples in her rosy cheeks. "Thanks."

"Sorry I couldn't tell you before now. I knew you wanted to keep it a secret and Tasha came up to us just as I was gonna ask you about it."

Claire giggled, bouncing a little in her seat. She was usually very dignified for her age, but today dignity was sacrificed for glee. "Well, thanks again. I can't wait to tell my mom."

"I'll bet!" Kellie whispered, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

"Where are you going for Thanksgiving?" Claire asked as the shuttle moved out of the school parking lot.

"My grandma's, up in Schenectady. My aunt and uncle and cousins are coming too. What about you?"

Claire wrinkled her nose. "My grandmother's, here in Metropolis. I'm not looking forward to it."

Kellie frowned. "I thought you were going to Kansas."

"That's for Christmas."

"Well, what's wrong with your grandmother here?"

Claire leaned her head back. "It's _bo-ring_. And Grandmother isn't exactly what you'd call a 'kindred spirit.' Thanksgiving is a big party for her, it's not just us visiting for a cozy family get-together. Her house looks like it came out of a Martha Stewart catalog and her food looks like it came out of a Martha Stewart catalog-"

Kellie giggled. "What does that look like?"

"Fake," Claire said with a smile, glad to be amusing her friend. "Piddly little spinach salads with the dressing drizzled all over the plate but not the food-"

Kellie giggled harder.

"And bread stuffing instead of cornbread dressing-"

"Cornbread dressing?"

"Grandma-the one in Kansas-that's what she makes," Claire explained. "It's so much better. I mean, they're both good, but Grandmother's maid, Louise, puts these big hunks of celery in the stuffing and hardly cooks them. You should see my dad when he bites down on it. His nose gets this really small wrinkle in it like this."

She made the slightest of grimaces that still conveyed such a sourness, Kellie almost doubled over.

"But there are a few good things about Thanksgiving at Grandmother's," Claire said, serious again. "For one thing, she always gives me money. And she has a piano that she lets me play. But we don't have to spend the night, which is fine because her guest bedroom is so cold-_and_ I have to share a bed with Mom and Dad."

"Gross," Kellie said, screwing up her face.

"Not gross, just uncomfortable. And Mom says I kick around in my sleep."

Kellie sighed. "If I were you I'd just go to Kansas."

"So would I, but Grandmother would be mad at Mom if we didn't alternate between her and Grandma," Claire muttered. "Mom doesn't like it anymore than I do but she says 'we have to keep the peace.' "

Kellie, who had no such complicated family dynamics, could only offer her sympathy.

Because of the shuttle route, Claire was one of the first to be dropped off-not at home, but at her parents' work. Waving to Kellie and wishing her a happy Thanksgiving, Claire tumbled out of the bus, shouldering her backpack, and ran up to the front door of the skyscraper that housed the biggest newspaper firm in the city.

The receptionist in the lobby looked up when she came in. "Hello, Claire!"

"Hello, Miss Evans!" Claire said happily, veering towards the front desk. "Is my mom here or is she on an assignment?"

"Nope, she's here," Miss Evans said. "You know the way."

"Thanks," Claire said, hurrying on. With a confidence that most adults found endearing and welcoming, she strode into an elevator with several other individuals, all of them wearing name tags that indicated they worked here, either as journalists, interns, secretaries, or simple office help. She recognized Mr. Lombard and immediately grinned at him.

"Hey, Scarecrow," he teased, giving one of her curls a playful tug. "How many inches did you grow overnight?"

"I _didn't_," Claire retorted. "I'm still five feet, four inches."

"Take care or you will be taller than your mother," Miss Win, a small Asian-American woman, commented dryly.

"Oh, she'll be taller if she keeps growing at this rate," Mr. Lombard said, crossing his arms over her chest. "And poor Lois will have short-girl-complex."

Claire giggled. The elevator opened and she sprinted out. The bull-pen lay before her in all its busy glory, full of journalists taking calls and jotting down notes or writing diligently in their roomy cubicles.

"Mom!" she cried, rushing into her mother's cubicle. "Mom, guess what?"

Mom was typing, her cornflower-blue eyes fastened hard on the computer screen. "Hang on just a sec, honey."

Claire set her knapsack down in one corner of the cubicle and leaned against the wall, waiting patiently. Finally Mom clicked "enter," pushed her chair back, and fixed her eyes on Claire, smiling and tossing a ginger strand from her forehead.

"I guess . . . you won the story contest," she said.

Claire's mouth dropped open. "How did you know?"

Mom smiled knowingly. "Because there's only one possible reason why you'd rush into here like a whirlwind when you're usually pretty subdued. Congratulations!"

Claire threw herself forward and hugged her mother. "I couldn't wait to tell you. I didn't even tell anyone at school except for Kellie-I didn't want to sound like I was bragging."

"How did you find out?"

"I checked my email at lunch." Claire had been given Dad's old iPhone for her birthday back in August and had made good use of it in the past three months. "You _know _I've been half-dead for news and I just couldn't help myself. Honest, I don't play on the phone at school, ever."

"I believe you. Let me read the email."

Claire dove into her backpack and produced the email. Mom scanned it, a pleased look on her face.

"A hundred dollars is a mighty big prize for a young lady of twelve. What are you going to do with it?"

"It's going into my favorite charity," Claire said with a high lift of one dark, perfectly-formed eyebrow. "My laptop fund."

Mom laughed at that. "Sounds good to me. Look, I'll be able to leave here early, about five o'clock, so put an extra effort into getting most of your homework done."

"Yes ma'am," Claire said emphatically. "I don't want to take a lot of it home to work on if I can absolutely help it."

Mom went back to her work while Claire sat cross-legged on the floor; she pulled out her books and dove head-first into arithmetic, science, and history. Thankfully her teacher had been merciful, giving light assignments to girls heading into a week's blissful vacation.

Mr. White walked past, peered into the cubicle, saw Claire bent over her work. "Afternoon, Claire."

She looked up, smiled at the tall black man with the frosted hair. "Hey, Mr. White."

"Perry," Mom said, whirling from her computer, "you're talking to a twelve-year-old who just won the _Concordian Review_'s short story contest. I think a little congratulations are due from my editor."

Mr. White grinned. "Congratulations for you or for Claire? No, I'm just kidding. That's fabulous, Claire. You gonna let me read your piece sometime?"

Claire blushed hotly and lowered her eyes to her work. "Maybe. If you promise to be nice to it. It's kinda my baby."

"Every writer's work is a baby," Mr. White said with good-humored contempt. "It's my job to make that baby grow up."

"Don't spoil it for her, Perry," Mom pretended to scold. "Leave this one untouched and you can hack the rest of her work to death. She'll have to learn the sting of _your_ red pen at some point."

But Mom glanced over her shoulder and winked at Claire, letting Claire know that she was most definitely teasing.


	2. Thanksgiving Woes

Thanksgiving vacation officially began the moment Mom was off of work. She and Claire took the subway to the West End and walked the short block to the townhouse where Claire had lived all her life. The wind scraped at their faces and Claire pulled the hood of her coat over her head.

"Where's Daddy?" she asked over the wind.

"He had an assignment," Mom said. "He might already be home-who knows?"

Claire nodded. Her dad was in the emergency block at the office-meaning, he was one of the few reporters employed by Mr. White who went on dangerous missions, to wrecks or crime scenes or even, occasionally, disasters on the other side of the world. It was an honorable job, Claire thought with her high-minded sense of principle drawn from the pages of history she so loved-though it sometimes made her anxious.

Dad wasn't at home after all, though, so Claire deposited her schoolwork in her bedroom and came back downstairs to help Mom with supper. She pulled out a cutting board and began slicing lettuce in paper-thin shreds while Mom browned the ground meat the two of them bought just yesterday on the way home from the office.

"How was school?" Mom asked.

"Fine," Claire said, washing the lettuce. "I think everybody wanted to get out of there-even the teachers. We had mostly tests. Oh, and my Scouts agreed to do the Salvation Army canteen again this year."

"I guess that's why you kept all your outgrown clothes in your closet."

"Yes, ma'am."

"All right," Mom said, reaching into the refrigerator for tortillas. "Remind me when we go to the store next Monday that we need to get some canned goods to add to that."

Claire smiled and nodded. "Thanks, Mom."

At that moment they heard the apartment door unlock and open. They both whirled to see Dad come in, his trench coat-which Claire thought particularly fine-looking-unbuttoned as usual and his dark head bare.

"You're late!" Mom cried. "Fifty lashes with a wet noodle for you."

Dad flashed one of his brilliant smiles at her, pushing his thick-rimmed black glasses back to the bridge of his nose. He took one look at Claire and lifted one of his dark, expressive eyebrows.

"_You_ have got something on the tip of your tongue. Better say it before it jumps out."

Claire threw the lettuce into a bowl and clapped her hands together. "I won the contest!"

Both of Dad's eyebrows shot up this time and he turned to Mom. "For real?"

"For real," Mom said proudly.

"And I won a hundred dollars!" Claire cried, grabbing her phone where she'd laid it on the table just for this moment. "Look, Dad! 'In recognition of exceptionable story crafting, we are pleased and honored to bestow on _Miss Martha Claire Kent _the Concordian Review's Short Story Award of the Year, along with the grand prize of one hundred dollars, for her short story "The Lionheart." ' "

Dad read the email with great concentration, then looked down at her and smiled so broadly, she giggled and clapped her hands over her mouth in her excitement.

"It looks like we've got a writer on our hands, Lois," he said.

"It happens to the best of families," Mom said with a wink at Claire.

He gave Claire a hug that warmed her all the way down to her toes. "I'm very proud of you, Claire-Bear."

"Well, thanks for editing it-both of you," Claire said, trying to hide the embarrassing color rising again to her face. "I know it wouldn't have won a thing if you hadn't helped me out."

"It's a good story and I was honored to be in your confidence like that," Mom said without a hint of humor in her voice. "A writer has to trust her editor and the editor has to care about the writer-and the story. I think that applies to us."

* * *

Claire Kent had lived in the city all her twelve years, except for the first two months of her life. She was born in Kansas, on the little farm where Dad grew up and where she now spent at least half of every summer vacation.

She was an only child. When she was little she begged for a baby brother or sister, but though her parents said "We'll see" and told Claire to pray for one, it never happened. Mom finally had to explain that women found it hard sometimes to have babies. Six-year-old Claire was miffed at first, then suddenly realized that Mom was just as disappointed as she was-maybe even _sad._

"Then you'll just have to take extra-good care of me," Claire had said with an emphatic nod of her head, "and love me enough for two babies!"

A look of relief swept over Mom's face, and Claire thought her eyes were a little glimmery. She scooped Claire up, kissed her, and whispered firmly, "Of course I will. I _always_ will."

So Claire grew up between two parents who loved her intensely. Her earliest memory was of Daddy reading little Beatrix Potter books to her on the couch. Another favored memory was of Mom sitting at the kitchen table with her, coloring like there was no tomorrow. Daddy came in the room, saw them, and burst out laughing.

"What?" Mom asked, affronted.

"Nothing," Daddy said, still laughing. "It's just that I never thought I'd see the day when Lois Lane amused herself with a pack of crayons and a coloring book."

"What are you, a crayon snob?" Mom teased, throwing one at the back of his head.

The playful banter between her parents extended to Claire, and she was allowed to parry back so long as she-and they-maintained a firm respect for each other. Kellie was her best friend as far as her peers went, but not even Kellie knew all Claire's secrets. Mom and Dad owned those and kept them faithfully.

It was with grim camaraderie, then, that they steeled themselves for Thanksgiving dinner. The morning itself was spent cheerily. Claire staggered downstairs rubbing the sleep out of her eyes to find Mom taking monkey bread out of the oven-a real treat. Dad, who rarely ate sugar since he claimed it made him jittery, even had some, but let Mom and Claire devour most of the sticky bread.

"This is _disastrous_ to my diet," Mom said, sucking her fingertip.

"Eat and drink, for tomorrow you diet," Dad replied.

"You won't have to diet because you won't pig out at Grandmother's like we do in Kansas," Claire remarked.

Mom smiled. "True."

" 'Have yourself a slice of pumpkin pie, Lois dear, with a thread of whipped cream-low fat-drizzled on your plate,' " Dad said with such dry humor that both Mom and Claire shrieked. He looked at them over the top of his glasses and smiled. "Made you laugh."

"Clark, you're terrible," Mom gasped, holding her forehead in her hand.

"Well, it's true!" Claire cried. "Grandmother's so-so-"

"Artificial?" Dad offered.

Claire nodded. "How'd you turn out _real_, Mom?"

"I stayed in boarding school," Mom said, running her finger over the sweet stickiness still clinging to her plate. "And I spent as much time with your grandfather as I could after the divorce."

Claire was quiet for a moment. She couldn't imagine her parents leaving each other and didn't like the mental image of her mother, not much older than herself at the time, dealing with the pain of such a separation.

"My mother had a lot of expectations for me," Mom said, her voice soft. "I didn't meet any of them. It's always been a disappointment for her, even though I'm still successful by the standards of most people. She wanted the socialite's life for me, and when I preferred to pursue my dream and then even went so far as to marry a poor man-" she glanced at Dad with a gentle smile "-it was almost more than she could take."

"And then you had a baby," Claire said, pouring herself another glass of milk.

Mom nodded. "That too. And then all of a sudden my job became the most important thing in the world to her. A baby was a huge obstacle to that in her mind. You were unplanned-"

"But very much wanted," Daddy interrupted, looking affectionately at Claire.

"Yes," Mom said, "but unplanned, and you took everyone by surprise. I had to wrestle between my mother's expectations-again-and what I knew was right."

Claire frowned. "So how did you come to a conclusion?"

Mom pointed at Dad, who chuckled.

"What did he say?" Claire demanded.

"That we weren't playing by the rules of my mother's game, never had played by them, and never would," Mom said, gazing at Dad with such obvious adoration that even Claire, who enjoyed a good romance, smirked in amusement. He looked boyishly embarrassed as he met Mom's eyes. "And he reminded me, too, that we'd always said we wanted a baby someday, and obviously Heaven had tired of our feet-dragging and set the date."

"And Grandmother?" Claire asked.

Mom waved her hand dismissively. "She got over it-after she got over the fact that we named you 'Martha Claire' and not 'Anne.' "

* * *

They'd gone shopping for clothes a few weeks ago to accomodate Claire's increasing height. A grey skirt, black sweater, and new black shoes made Claire feel very grown up, especially when Mom pulled back her dark curls and fastened them at the back of her head with a silver clip.

"Step back, let me look at you," Mom said.

Claire obeyed, twirling the full, knee-length skirt shyly. Mom set her hands on her hips and nodded.

"You look classy, Miss Kent."

"You look good yourself," Claire said, eyeing her mother's billowy red shirt and brown pants appreciatively. She noticed Mom was wearing high-heeled shoes, though, making her several inches taller than Claire once again.

"Not too bad for an old lady?" Mom teased, tossing her ginger hair curled softly and left down around her shoulders.

Claire looked at her incredulously. Before she could respond, Dad appeared in the doorway, buttoning the front of his sports coat.

"How do _I_ look?" he asked, straightening his tie.

"Amazing," Mom said, chucking his chin flirtatiously as she passed him in the doorway. Dad glanced at Claire, gave his eyebrows one quick lift that made her giggle, and motioned for her to follow.

As soon as they arrived at Grandmother's penthouse, however, Claire's heart sank. The place was full of people-not at all her idea of a cozy Thanksgiving evening-all of them dressed to the nines. She wondered if they didn't have families to visit this evening, and so their lives revolved around this glitzy world of high society that her grandmother gloried in.

And then her grandmother was there, and Claire felt like she was in a whirlwind.

"Claire, honey! Goodness you've grown-you'll be outstripping your strength-Lois, aren't you feeding this child?-yes, how are you, was the subway very crowded?-Clark."

Dad nodded his dark head politely; he and Grandmother weren't on good terms.

"Well!" Grandmother exclaimed by way of taking a breath. She was very thin but her face looked stretched; her lipstick was bright red, her eyelashes unnaturally long and black, and her hair dyed in what Claire thought a poor imitation of its original copper. She wore a form-fitting gold-and-brown dress that, Claire had to admit, was very pretty. Claire had a hard time trying not to stare at the shoes, though. The heels were higher than Mom's, but the shoes themselves! All gold and glitter.

"Make your way around the room," Grandmother said, pushing Claire forward. "Lois, Clark, you too. Claire, there's a buffet if you're hungry."

Claire bit her lip to keep back her disappointment. So there would be no Thanksgiving dinner, not even the celery-filled bread stuffing to make Dad grimace. She didn't like being pushed forward, either. Some of the people were watching her, whispering, pointing.

Abruptly, her ears began to ring. Claire blinked hard; she discreetly brought her hand up to her earlobe and pulled on it. The ringing-frighteningly familiar-didn't stop, however, and the whispers turned to a loud roaring.

"Her granddaughter."

"A pretty little thing."

"She goes to private school . . . Annie says she's bright."

"Takes after Lois, I'm sure."

"She looks like her father."

Claire felt her face flush with alarm as much as embarrassment. Grandmother saw her pulling on her ear and jerked her arm down. Claire looked up at her and fought back a glare.

"Lois!" Grandmother called. "You know Mayor Leonard, of course."

To Claire's relief, Mom had stayed right behind her. She looked up in time to see Mom tilt her head, a regal haughtiness masking her pretty face as she gazed up at the tall man in front of the window. A tall man, Claire noted, with a grim, weathered face and keen grey eyes. He extended a hand to Mom, who took it icily.

"Miss Lane," Mr. Leonard said, bowing at the waist. "I've read your work-exceptional."

_Miss Lane_. It always jarred Claire to hear Mom's maiden and professional name. At church, school, the grocery store, in Kansas-everywhere else, Mom was "Mrs. Kent."

"Mayor Leonard is one of the biggest promotors of my salon concerts," she heard Grandmother explaining and realized she was the one being addressed. "Mayor, this is my granddaughter Claire."

"Ah," the man said, fastening his keen eyes on Claire. "And what grade are you in?"

"Sixth," Claire said.

"Then you're the same age as my daughter Adrienne."

Claire forced a smile. Mayor Leonard turned to Mom again.

"You know you've always fascinated me . . . it surprised me when I heard you'd married, after your, shall we say, romantic history."

Romantic history! Claire looked at her mother again, but Mom's lips were very tight. She gave her shoulders a tiny shrug and said, "Everyone has to move on, you know. Excuse me, Mayor, but my family and I are going to get something to eat."

And with that she grabbed Claire's shoulder and firmly steered her away from Grandmother. Claire breathed a sigh of short-lived relief, for Grandmother followed to the buffet table where Dad was quietly serving himself.

"How could you be so rude?" Grandmother hissed. "Do you realize who he is? You just snubbed the biggest-"

"-Political snob in Metropolis," Mom finished. "I know, I know. Take a plate, Claire. Mom, how could you throw us together-you know how I feel about Leonard and his kind!"

"I know how you feel about that caped crusader," Grandmother snapped.

Mom turned very red. "I really don't think this is an appropriate place to discuss this!"

"Lois," Dad said quietly.

Mom whirled to face him, her blue eyes blazing and then quieting-slowly-as she met Dad's steadier gaze. Claire marveled at the transformation. Mom lowered her eyes, gripped a pair of tongs, and set an egg roll-an egg roll, of all things, on Thanksgiving!-on Claire's uplifted plate.

"I don't want my history pried into on Thanksgiving night," Mom said in a curt but quiet tone. "And I won't have you manipulating me into conversations you know good and well I won't appreciate or prefer to avoid."

"Then why did you come at all?" Grandmother muttered, leaning one arm against the table.

"I'm not quite sure," Mom retorted. "Because I thought you'd enjoy _our_ company, I guess."

To Claire's surprise Grandmother flinched, as if Mom's meaning just smacked her in the face. As if she realized how it might feel to attend a party full of strangers when it might be far more enjoyably spent at home. She looked at Dad, Claire, then Mom, laced her fingers, and nodded slowly.

"Enjoy your meal," she said with a tight smile at Claire, then turned away without another word.


	3. Superman

**I can't PM yet so I want to send a public "Thank you!" to "Bite Me-Not Literally" for your review! So glad you're enjoying it! **

Claire went to shower as soon as they got home, leaving Lois free to cry in peace in the kitchen.

It always had to end this way, any interaction with her mother. Annie couldn't be pleased. Her hyper-critical ways left raw wounds that had barely scabbed over before she set in her claws again with some careless-or intentional-barbed comment.

It had been that way since Lois was little. She'd always been more interested in "teaching" her menagerie of stuffed animals than attending birthday parties or being shown off to doting friends of her parents. Her father, General Lane, had been more understanding, but after the divorce he'd been too distant to protect her from Annie's controlling ways.

Small wonder Lois had dreamed of an independent life in pursuit of a career in journalism. She'd be free, no longer dependent on parents who'd put their own careers above her security and happiness. She trusted no one but herself and God.

No one, that is, until Clark Kent walked into her life.

That had been fifteen years ago. It didn't seem that long at all, the trip to the Antarctic and her accident in the Fortress of Solitude. He'd saved her life and saved it twice more in the following months. She gave him her sympathy and loyalty, and he gave her the key to his heart.

After the awful Battle of Metropolis he pursued her relentlessly, breaking down her emotional defenses for two years until she finally said "yes." It had been a hard decision-the marriage had to be a secret until romantic speculation between her and "Superman" died down-but the details were ironed out and the quiet wedding finally took place.

Not until Lois unexpectedly got pregnant a few months later did she tell her mother, who had once described Lois' quiet journalist-boyfriend as a thick-skulled dork. Lois told her only that they were married and expecting, not who he really was, and endured such a barrage of stinging condemnation that she cried herself to sleep that night in Clark's arms.

Now they had Claire and they were happy. Lois was working, Clark was writing with her along with using his gifts to help the world, and Claire was thriving. Annie was the only damper, and though she didn't barge into their idyll often, it was disastrous when she did.

Lois sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her arm, leaving mascara smudges on her skin. She washed the few dirty dishes from lunch like her life depended on it, hardly caring if she banged them against the side of the sink until she suddenly felt a pair of strong arms slip around her slender waist and pull her in.

"It's not worth getting this upset," he said in his deep, steady voice.

"She knows I can't stand Leonard!" Lois hissed. "Him and his cronies-they hate you!"

"They're full of hot air," Clark whispered. "What are they going to do? Run me out of town on a rail? You know they can't, Lois. You shouldn't let this get to you."

She lowered her head and took a deep, calming breath. Gently, Clark lifted her arms out of the sink and dried her hands with a towel, then turned her so she could face him. She looked up slowly, half-ashamed with herself. He stroked her hair back, his touch tender.

"These men," he said quietly, "they complain and grumble and say I'm a threat, which probably means they have something to hide. I intend to find out why they're so afraid of me, and then one of us will expose them with the tools of our trade."

"But they're not like most men and you know it," Lois whispered. "You know what Leonard has, everything he researched . . . he probably knows more about Krypton that anybody on this planet except for you, and if he ever finds out what anything from _there_ can do to you-"

She stopped, choking at the horrible memory of him crumpling to the floor of General Zod's ship, the blood trickling out of his mouth and his breath coming in labored gasps.

"Lois," Clark murmured. "Even if that's true, you know I can't hide. You wouldn't _want_ me to hide. You told me once that disappearing wasn't an option for me."

She nodded. "I know...I remember."

"Then stop worrying about this," he urged. "And don't let your mother get under your skin."

She nodded again, meekly now, like a child receiving wise instruction. He tipped her head back and kissed her just as Claire came clambering down the stairs. She poked her head into the kitchen.

"Daddy, the bathtub drain is clogged."

"I'm right on it," he said, winking at Lois as he released her. "Dad to the rescue."

She smiled and shook her head. Even Superman had domestic duties these days.

* * *

Claire dared not press her mother about the episode at Grandmother's and went to bed, too tired to think about it much herself. Her last thought as she drifted off in her cocoon of blankets was how glad she was that they hadn't stayed at Grandmother's overnight. Kellie was right, sleeping with her parents _would_ be pretty embarrassing at her age . . .

When she woke, it was half-past seven. Claire moaned, rubbed her eyes, and adjusted to the light of a cloudless morning streaming through the sheer curtains of her bedroom window. She had a pretty bedroom, decorated in light blue and chocolate-brown; she and Mom had picked the colors just this past summer and redecorated it from the dainty pink-and-white of her babyhood.

Blue and brown was grown-up, feminine without being frilly. The full bookshelf and the big memory board hanging on one wall also testified to Claire's personality; Sherlock Holmes resided alongside a special edition of _The Lord of the Rings_, while the memory board proudly displayed photos from Kansas as well as programs from school plays and concerts.

When I get my award, Claire thought drowsily, I'll put the certificate up there, too . . . and I'll get Dad to put my money in the bank.

She sat up, yawned, and staggered out of her room. The house was still quiet, but she could hear someone downstairs in the kitchen. Claire padded cautiously down the stairs in her socks. One time several years ago she'd slipped, fallen down several steps, and landed at the bottom with a hard thud, flat on her stomach.

Mom was in the living room then and had screamed, run to Claire, and looked her over from head to toe. Claire had a bruise on one knee, but that was all; her tears were more from fright than from pain.

"It's a wonder she didn't break her neck," Mom had told Dad that evening.

Ever since then Claire went carefully down the stairs, though she almost always jumped the last step. It was a kind of defiance against the steps that, she used to imagine, were eager to see her fall again. Now it was just a habit. Her feet gave a soft thump on the hard wood that covered the downstairs hallway, and she proceeded to skid-ninja-like, she thought-across the slick floor and into the kitchen.

"Hey, Claire," Dad said. He sat at the table, dressed in a sweatshirt and blue jeans, skimming through something on his iPad. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, sir."

"There's some coffee left in the pot," he whispered confidentialy.

Claire hurried to the counter. Mom didn't approve of her drinking coffee, but it wasn't like she'd actually _commanded _Claire to avoid it. Dad had no problem with her having a secret cup on the weekends, just so long as she put milk in it.

"I'm starving," Claire said, grabbing a cereal bowl as soon as her coffee was poured. "Want some oatmeal?"

"Thanks, sweetheart, I already ate."

Claire poured a packet of instant oatmeal into her bowl, added milk, and slipped the bowl into the microwave. She wrapped her hands around the steaming coffee cup and sat down at the table next to Dad. From where she sat she could look out the window at the quiet West End street, see the wind scattering golden leaves in the path of the occasional slow-moving car.

Dad put away his iPad and leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and stretched. Claire heard his limbs pop and crack. He groaned and ran his hand through his thick curls she had inherited.

"I used to be a night owl," he said a little ruefully. "Now I stay up till midnight and I'm worn out in the morning."

"I don't like staying up late either," Claire said, rubbing her eyes again. "It's fun on New Year's, but when you're doing something you don't like it's not worth the sacrifice."

Dad's piercing blue eyes sparked with mock incredulity. "You didn't have _fun_ last night?"

Claire smirked. "Did you?"

"I've never had fun at your grandmother's penthouse," Dad said, clasping his large, sensitive hands between his knees. "If her looks could kill, I would've been a dead man the day she first met me."

The microwave bell rang and Claire hurried to get her oatmeal. She carried it back carefully, stirred it, blew on her first spoonful. The packet had contained cinnamon and bits of dried apple-very appealing.

"Dad, why does Mom not like Mayor Leonard?"

Dad tapped his feet on the floor a moment, thinking. "Well...before he became mayor, Leonard was a prominent investor in the city. He and several other men, in fact, helped rebuild this city after the Battle of Metropolis. But they gained a lot of influence and not all of it was-or is-very good."

Claire frowned. "Why?"

"Because no matter what they say in public, they don't always have the best interests of the people at heart."

"Oh."

"Some men like them _are _noble-hearted and really want to see the city advance. But William Leonard and the men who work with him aren't exactly . . ." Dad frowned, rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. "They often put their own personal gain over what's right, and don't support good and honest efforts on the part of ordinary people to improve the city. Somehow that might get in _their _way."

Claire nodded. Her parents had always emphasized to her the importance of individuals in effecting positive change. They both despised anything that smacked of "the Powers that Be."

"So that's why Mom doesn't like him."

"Well, that's part of it," Dad said, a bit amused. "Mayor Leonard now wants to intimidate Superman into leaving the city, and that's got your mother in a rage."

Claire looked up at her father with a start. The name had inspired awe and respect from her ever since she was little. Horrified, she demanded, "Why would they want to do that?"

"Because they think he might set off another wave of destruction like the invasion years ago."

"But that wasn't his fault!" Claire cried. The details were well-known to her; the anniversary of the awful invasion came every September and she and Mom always visited the big crater that had been left as a memorial to those who'd died. "The general was the one who marched in and tried to take over-and it was Su-"

"I know, I know," Dad cut her off, "but Leonard and his kind don't like the unpredictability and altruistic intentions of someone like that, so they're giving him the cold shoulder in the hopes he'll leave. Mom is good friends with Superman and it makes her angry to hear people talk about him like that."

Claire stared thoughtfully into her oatmeal for a moment. She knew, of course, that her mom had met the mysterious knight on many occasions. She hadn't realized he had enemies here in the city, though. Everyone she knew, at least, respected him.

"Have _you_ ever met him?" she asked abruptly.

Dad hesitated, then said, "Yes."

"What's he like?"

Dad smiled a little. "You'll have to get your mother to describe him for you."

"Who?" Mom asked sleepily, leaning against the kitchen doorframe in a pale pink robe.

"Superman!" Claire cried, whirling in her chair. "What's he like?"

Mom blushed. "Well . . . he's tall, dark, and handsome . . ."

"Not as handsome as me," Dad said, standing up and kissing Mom's cheek. She flushed a deep crimson and swatted his arm playfully.

"Claire, are you drinking coffee?" she demanded.

Claire grabbed her mug and held it against her chest as if to defend it. "Dad said I could!"

Mom was skeptical. "Well, I don't approve."

"Finish telling me," Claire begged. "What's he like?"

Mom looked helplessly at Dad, who shrugged.

"You're no help, Clark Kent," Mom scolded.

"You're the one who's besotted with him, Lois Lane," Dad retorted.

Mom set her hands on her hips and fought to keep a straight face. She looked down at Claire and spoke in a rush.

"He's a fine, good, kind-hearted man who only wants to help people. He doesn't suffer fools lightly but he's compassionate and takes interest in everyone, from the greatest to the smallest- and he'll fight any injustice and defend a righteous cause with all the passion and determination of a crusader. How's _that_, Mr. Kent?"

"Sounds about right," Dad said a little absently. "I especially like the 'doesn't suffer fools lightly' part."


	4. The Mayor's Daughter

**I published this chapter and then realized that I forgot to thank everyone for all the nice reviews! They're very encouraging to me! Okay, I'll be quiet now and leave y'all with this next chapter. **

On Monday Claire went back to school. Grand Park Academy had been decked out over the weekend in Christmas regalia, and Claire's disappointment over the most recent holiday gave way to excitement over the upcoming one. Christmas meant Kansas.

She sat at her desk in the middle of the room, laying out her books and talking across the aisle to Kellie and the other girls. Miss Thompson, a young, lighthearted woman who looked for all the world like Taylor Swift-at least in Claire's opinion-looked over her class with a twinkle in her eye. All was well until the door opened and everyone turned to see who had come in late.

It was a girl nearly as tall as Claire, but heavier. She was dressed in skinny jeans, a white shirt, and a navy-blue vest, and carried a backpack nonchalantly over one shoulder. She sauntered down the middle aisle towards Miss Thompson, and Claire noticed she was chewing gum.

"I'm Adrienne Leonard," she said, as if she'd just declared herself to be Catherine the Great. Claire gave a start at the name. "My father says I'm assigned to the sixth grade class."

Miss Thompson frowned slightly. "Only if you're twelve-"

"I am," said Adrienne Leonard. She glanced over her shoulder and Claire understood her poor teacher's confusion. Adrienne wore make-up-foundation, powder, mascara, blush, eyeliner, the works-and it made her look two or three years older at least. Her dark hair was highlighted, too, and that only added to the deception.

Miss Thompson tried another tack. "Have you registered with the school?"

"My father is registering me right now," Adrienne said haughtily.

Miss Thompson was unconvinced. "You may take one of those seats in the back until I return. I'll have a word with the principal just to confirm this."

She left the room. Adrienne Leonard did not go to one of the back desks. She stood in the middle of the center aisle and looked over the girls with amused contempt.

"So who's the class president?" she asked sneeringly.

No one answered. Claire spoke up. "We don't have a class president."

"The one who speaks for all rules all, my father says," Adrienne remarked with an affected laugh, "so _you_ must be the class president."

Claire raised an eyebrow. "If you say so, Your Royal Highness."

Adrienne looked taken aback by this biting sarcasm, then quickly recovered herself with another laugh and a toss of her head. "What's your name?"

"Claire."

"Can I have your desk, Claire? I don't think I could stand being in the back of the class. I won't be able to see the blackboard anyway, not with _my_ eyes. You see, I'm supposed to be wearing glasses but I left them at home. Do you think I could use your desk today?"

The request was voiced in such a condescending, sugary-sweet tone that Claire knew it was all a lie. There were no glasses at home and nothing was wrong with Adrienne Leonard's eyes. She just didn't want to sit in the back where her painted face and streaked hair might possibly go unnoticed.

But still, she was new. Claire had been taught to respect others and to be kind and thoughtful, especially to newcomers. Whether or not she knew it, it _was_ what had made her so popular among the other students. Her reputation, however, was not what spurred her to action; it was merely her principle, her keen awareness of the right thing to do.

Slowly, Claire stood up. A murmur of surprise rippled through the class. She forced a smile, a kind, obliging smile, and looked Adrienne Leonard in the eye.

"I'm sorry I was rude," she said, hoping she sounded friendly and gracious. "Sure, you can have my desk today."

Adrienne again looked taken aback. Claire gathered her books, shot a reassuring glance at the stunned Kellie, and moved to the back of the room. Miss Thompson returned, a bewildered and even uneasy look on her pretty face, and addressed Adrienne. She didn't seem at all surprised-or didn't realize-that Adrienne was now installed in Claire's seat.

"You're registered," Miss Thompson said quietly. "I'm sorry for the confusion."

"Apology accepted," Adrienne replied haughtily.

Kellie glanced over her shoulder at Claire, who sat ramrod-straight in the desk furthest away from the blackboard. Claire gave her head a slight shake and Kellie turned again.

Claire took a deep breath. She had no reason to feel humiliated-she would _not_ feel humiliated for the world-but she'd have to squint to see the blackboard. She strained her eyes, but to her surprise and relief she could clearly see the name of the lesson Miss Thompson was writing. There was nothing wrong with her vision, that was certain.

In the split second before she stopped straining, Claire's eyes played a trick on her. For an instant, the wall with the blackboard seemed to fall away and she thought she saw the room beyond, where the fourth graders were doing their times tables-and suddenly she _heard_ them reciting the math problems. "Eight times eight is sixty-four, eight times nine is seventy-two . . ."

Claire gasped and blinked hard. The vision disappeared. No one heard her gasp in the back of the room. Alarmed, Claire dropped her eyes to her books and tried to follow along with the lesson, but her mind swirled with Adrienne Leonard and the startling spell.

* * *

At recess Claire tested her eyes. She strained and strained and strained, but nothing happened. She tried to catch sounds she ought not here in the noisy cafeteria, but to no avail. Relieved, Claire shrugged to herself and chalked it up to her imagination.

The girls of Grand Park Academy, however, were not as easy to convince where Adrienne Leonard was concerned. She was brash, loud, and determined to hold sway over them. No one seemed too impressed by her obvious demand for attention. They tried to make conversation, but she was so self-obsessed that conversation grew dull. Quickly.

"She obviously thinks very highly of herself and her father," Kellie whispered to Claire.

"What was that?" Adrienne shouted, seeing Kellie lean closer to Claire. "I want to know!"

"Why?" Kellie demanded. "Why do you care? She and I have been friends for years and I only just met you."

"Look, Peterson," Adrienne said-she had an odd way of addressing them by their last names -"I'd think you'd be as nice to a new girl as-what's your name again?"

Claire, at the end of Adrienne's pointing finger, answered quietly, "Claire Kent."

"Yeah-I'd think you'd be as nice to a new girl as Kent was to me this morning, giving me her seat up at the front the way she did." Adrienne simpered a bit and Claire swallowed back an irritated protest.

"Anyway, I was saying-my father owns this house on Cape Cod that is just _stupdenous_," Adrienne went on to Tasha and Ellen, who looks nonplussed. "While we were there last year he got me my own horse horse, a full-blooded Arabian!"

"Claire has a horse," Tasha said. "Her grandmother keeps it for her in Kansas."

"She's not an Arabian, though," Claire said quickly and with a smile. "And my grandmother owns her, not me."

"What is he, then?" Adrienne asked.

"It's a 'she,' and she's an Appaloosa."

Adrienne sniffed. "Ah. A stock horse. Not really a racer, I suppose."

Claire took pride in only a few things, and the horse-the one that was hers in all but name-was one of those. She bristled at Adrienne's snobbery. "No, she's not a racer, but she's a good horse and a sturdy one, and good for herding cattle. Can you cut a calf?"

"Can I do what to a calf?"

"Cut 'em! Can you help corner a little calf away from its mama by riding your horse backwards and forwards and sideways in front of it? That's what I do on my horse. A friend of my dad's taught me last summer."

Adrienne turned up her nose. "Of course I can't. Besides, I believe it's inhumane."

Claire knew at that moment that she and Adrienne were going to have little in common. She turned back to her meal without another word.

Adrienne Leonard proved herself increasingly intolerable over the next few weeks, until even Kellie had a hard time keeping her patience. Grand Park Academy was known for its general wholesomeness and Adrienne Leonard with her her worldly ways and arrogance stuck out like a sore thumb. A rivalry, too, began to develop between Adrienne and Claire-not because the other girls were gravitating away from Claire-they weren't-but because Adrienne tried so hard to get Claire's goat.

"She aggravates the _tar_ out of me!" Claire hissed one afternoon in Mom's cubicle, her knees drawn up to her chest and her young face twisted into a fearsome scowl. "She's constantly picking on me, bragging about her father and their yacht and their seaside house and her stupid Arabian-she's like an annoying six-year-old who thinks she's going on twenty-six!"

"Adrienne Leonard's level of maturity sounds like it's sorely lacking for her age," Mom said dryly. "Rather like her father's."

Claire rolled her eyes in agreement. She was paying more attention to local politics now that she understood her mother's irritation with Mayor Leonard. The latest development was an op-ed, written by the mayor, suggesting that the people of Metropolis no longer welcome Superman. It had gone over like a lead balloon, thankfully. The alien-knight seemed to ignore the mayor, too, still offering his help whenever there was an emergency: a wreck on the highway, a building on fire, an accident in a construction zone.

Claire heard about all this with a strong sense of satisfaction. She was more worried about Adrienne than about Superman anyway.

"I still don't know why Adrienne picks on _me_," she muttered, jabbing her thumb at her chest.

"Because you're a born leader," Mom said, stapling a small stack of papers. "Adrienne knows it, can see you're made of sterner stuff than you, and it irks her. Especially since, I'm sure, she's had her way all her life."

"What do I do?" Claire asked helplessly. "Do I let her run roughshod over me?"

"No," Mom said, pointing an admonishing finger at her. "No, don't you do that. You show her that you're on higher ground than she is. Don't get on her level, don't snap back at her. If you get on her level, she's won. You just carry yourself like a princess, Martha Claire, and I'll bet you'll have the last laugh over Miss Fancy-Pants Leonard."


	5. Secrets

The wind howled mournfully outside the bedroom window, distracting Lois from her book. She glanced up, listened first to the wind and then to Clark's deep, regular breathing. She sighed, turned the page, tried to focus again on what she was reading.

The suitcases were all packed and waiting in the downstairs hallway for the morning trip to the airport. The holiday season had progressed until they were finally here, Christmas week, Christmas vacation, bound for Kansas until the day after New Year's. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and they'd be far away from Metropolis by this time tomorrow night.

Kansas meant relaxation. Kansas meant she could watch Clark shed the past months of tense vigilance while Leonard and Company intensified their efforts to turn the city against him. He could almost be a boy again when he was in Kansas among people who knew him and loved him for who he was, whether or not they'd acknowledged verbally that they actually _knew_ who he was.

He suddenly tensed beside her. Lois looked from the book again and saw his hand clutch, convulsively, at something invisible to her but not to his dreaming eyes. He made an odd grunting sound and moved as if he was trying to sit up. Lois put her book down and leaned over him.

"Clark," she called. "It's okay, you're dreaming . . . wake up."

"The ship . . . it's coming . . ."

She gave him a hard shake. "_Wake up!_"

His eyes flew open, startlingly blue. He gasped, recognized the room, shut his eyes, exhaled. Sympathetic, she rubbed his shoulder.

"You and your dreams."

"Did I wake you?" he asked, embarrassed.

"No, I was reading. You've only been asleep for half an hour."

He pressed his hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut again, as if trying to erase the fearful images still flooding his brain. Lois was silent a moment, watching him, trying to decide what to say or do.

"You only get these when you're stressed out about something," she murmured.

He said nothing. She didn't expect an answer, not a verbal one anyway. His whole life he'd bottled up his feelings. Although he confided most of them to her now, anxiety was not one he ever admitted to. She simply saw symptoms of it: distractedness, irritability with things that didn't usually bother him. Nightmares.

_Those_ were the worst, and they almost always involved that horrible day fifteen Septembers ago when the world as they knew it nearly came to an end.

She put her head down on her pillow, watching him. He stared at the ceiling now, still trying to catch his breath, but he seemed to be thinking hard, trying to recall something important out of the confused, fearful memories.

"I discovered something today . . . while I was flying."

Lois frowned. Sometimes he did that, fly before the sun was up. "What did you discover?"

Clark thought a moment. "A ramshackle building in the bad part of town . . . and William Leonard himself walking into it."

"Leonard? What was he doing in that part of town, at that hour?"

"That was what I asked myself." He turned his head towards her. "I peered through the roof. You know I don't ever do that unless I have to-"

"And?" Lois demanded, uninterested for the moment in his rigid principles.

"There's a laboratory. I could just make it out in the basement. The place is guarded by a few armed ne'er-do-wells who look pretty brainless, but there are people more powerful and intelligent, in lab suits, underground. They're developing something . . . a weapon, I think, or a specimen of some sort that could be converted into a weapon."

Lois propped herself up on her elbow, nervous. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Me either. And with all this threatening talk against me from Leonard . . . to be honest, I'm concerned."

Lois knew what he meant, and it made her shudder. "He _knows_ what can weaken you. All that research he did on the Kryptonian ships' ruins and all the broken armor after the battle-"

"I wish I'd gathered up every little bit and thrown it all into the ocean," Clark muttered.

"And I wish I'd never said a word to my mom about what happened to you on Zod's ship."

He said nothing. Hard lessons, these . . . innocent mistakes made in those early days that they still paid for. For him, it had been a constant watching of the American government and the leaders of the city, making sure no one was trying to use the dangerous wreckage against him. For her, it had been forcing a deliberate distance between herself and his alter-ego, so that no one would suspect a love affair ever again. It had been penance for confiding in her mother so soon after the trauma of the battle.

"All right, you win," he said abruptly, and with a return of good humor. "I'm stressed."

She smiled, surprised at the confession. "Well, thank you for saying so."

"Trust you to coax it out of me," he said with a sheepish grin. "Goodnight."

* * *

Claire loved to be on a plane. When she was little she always begged for the window seat, and as soon as the captain gave the all-clear for the passengers to unbuckle their seat belts, small Claire would get on her knees and press her face against the thick windowpane so she could gaze at the fruited plains below.

Now she didn't smoosh her nose against the glass, but she did lean forward and watch, for a good portion of the ride, the landscape thousands of feet below. Dad sat beside her, leaning back in his seat with his eyes shut behind his glasses. Mom sat in front of them, typing on her laptop.

"Dad, wouldn't it be glorious to be a bird?" Claire asked, knowing her father wasn't really asleep. "You could soar high above everything, wild and free with the wind in your feathers and the sun warming you right through."

"Might get pretty cold this high up," Dad said coolly, his eyes still closed.

"Well, not even a bird can get this high," Claire admitted. "But I still think it would be fun."

"No doubt," Dad murmured.

They were renting a car at the airport, which meant a two hour drive to the farm. The cold was sharper here than in Metropolis, on account of the dryness of the air and the incessant winds that scraped across the white and nearly-treeless prairie. Claire was glad when Dad turned on the heater in the little car.

"It's going to snow overnight," he said, looking up at the grey sky and then over his shoulder at Claire. "I hope you were dreaming of a white Christmas, because you've got it."

"I challenge you to a snow fort battle!" she cried.

"Challenge accepted. Help me fight a battle, Lois?"

Mom gave him one of her signature smirks and Dad laughed.

Grandma stepped out onto the front porch as soon as the car drove up. She was bundled in her own coat but her head with its long, silky grey hair was bare, and she slammed her hands into her pockets. The young border collie Nan, one of the products of Dusty's last litter, bounded alongside her and jumped all over Claire as soon as she stepped out of the car.

"Merry Christmas!" Grandma cried.

Claire ran to her and the two of them threw their arms around each other. Claire revelled in Grandma's gentle patting of her back, and smiled happily when Grandma pulled her back to look her in the face.

"Your mother told me you'd grown but I didn't expect you to be nearly eye-to-eye with me," Grandma said.

"Would it hurt your feelings if I was taller than you?" Claire laughed.

"Not at all-just so long as you promise to bend over me one day and kiss the top of my head like your father used to do."

She didn't gush, she didn't add a fake sugar-sweetness to her tone; she was simply Grandma Martha of the dryly affectionate expressions and throaty Kansas accent. Her grey eyes held a quiet, steady love Claire had never doubted. Dad came over at that moment and, to Grandma's obvious pleasure, kissed the top of her head.

"Mom, it's too chilly for you to be out here in just that old coat."

"Dare you insult my _best_ coat, Clark?" Grandma teased as she greeted Mom with a long hug. Suitcases were hauled into the warm farmhouse where everything was familiar and cozy: the little kitchen with the linoleum floor that Grandma had insisted on keeping even when her house was remodeled a few years before Claire was born . . . the shelves of beautiful books Grandpa had collected before he died . . . the rocking chair and the big recliner in the living room . . . the fire in an old-fashioned wood stove.

A Christmas tree stood in one corner of the living room with brightly-wrapped presents all around it. Claire, who had laid her coat and mittens on the twin bed in Dad's old bedroom, sat down before it with Nan. Claire caught the frisky dog and made her sit, "shake hands," and then roll on the floor so she could pet Nan's stomach.

"Claire!" Grandma called. "Come and help your mother and I serve up dinner. You can play with that overgrown pup after we eat."

"Yes, ma'am," Claire called back, scrambling to her feet and hurrying into the kitchen in time to see Mom slap Dad's hand away from a dish of sprinkled sugar cookies.

"Shame!" Mom cried. "After supper."

"I repent in dust and ashes," Dad said with a rather unrepentant shrug. When Mom turned her back, however, he grabbed one of the cookies-no, two!-and slipped one to Claire. Claire slammed it into her pocket, broke off a piece, and popped it into her mouth before Grandma or Mom saw. Dad winked approvingly and she smiled, savoring the buttery sweetness.

It was going to be a very, very good Christmas.

* * *

Claire woke up with a start and butterflies in her stomach. Through the window she could see that the snow had increased in the night, but knew from past Christmases that she must never, ever get up without permission.

The reason for this was that, one year, she'd walked in on Dad while he was still setting up a new bicycle for her. Now either he or Mom would come and tell her if it was alright for her to emerge. She'd know if the hall light came on, spreading what she called "the golden bar" through the crack between the door and the floor. She could hear noises outside the bedroom but she never moved from her bed-though she did sit up and pet Nan, who clearly wanted to get outside.

And then there it was-the golden bar-and footsteps. Claire held her breath. The door opened and Dad, his curls all tousled from sleep, poked his head in.

"Merry Christmas," he said, smiling.

Claire barely repressed a squeak of delight and catapuled off the bed; Nan, who had spent the night at the foot of Claire's bed, gave a small bark and followed at an eager trot. Dad laughed as Claire slid in her socks down the hall and entered the living room, where Mom and Grandma already waited.

For the next half-hour the living room was subjected to the worst kind of clutter it had seen since last Christmas. Wrapping paper was torn off and thrown about and the room filled with exclamations of delight. Claire found new books to read from her parents; from Grandma, a blue-and-brown wrap-around sweater and an envelope that contained a check for the last bit of money needed for her longed-for laptop. She threw her arms around Grandma.

"Thank you, thank you!" she cried, staring at the check in disbelief.

"Your mother told me you've been hankering for a new computer," Grandma said, patting her knee. "Write another prize-worthy story and dedicate it to me, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am, I will," Claire said, and meant it.

The sun was making a feeble and unsuccessful attempt to melt the snow by the time cinnamon rolls were laid out on the kitchen table. Claire ate and read at the same time, and for once no one made her put the book away. She was even granted a cup of coffee by Mom. Dad looked shocked, but Mom just smiled and said, "Well after all, Christmas comes but once a year."

A half-hour later, dressed in coat, scarf, and mittens, Claire took a flying leap from the front porch and landed on her feet in the thick, hard snow. Dad surveyed the ground critically, pointed to a wide-open area just beyond the barn.

"Right over there we should have enough snow for two forts," he said.

"Grandma let me have these for flags," Claire said, pulling two dish towels out of her pocket. "We'll have fancy forts."

" 'Fancy forts?' " Dad repeated, amused, and trudged towards the intended battlefield. Claire followed, trying to keep up with his long strides in the deep snow.

Lois watched them from the kitchen window, her fingers curved around a steaming mug. The breakfast dishes had been cleared away and the extra cinnamon rolls tucked into the refrigerator. Martha sat down at the table with her own mug and sighed contentedly.

"Well, that was a successful Christmas morning, if I do say so myself."

"I second that," Lois said, sipping the coffee carefully. "I'm supposed to join them later for a battle, but I'll stay warm and lazy in here while they build the forts. Look at Claire . . . she acts like the cold doesn't bother her at all."

Martha laughed. "In some ways she reminds me of Clark, and in other ways she surprises me with her spunk. She must've gotten that from you. Claire is louder, feistier, and more sure of herself than he ever was at her age."

Lois smiled. "She's a lot of fun. I consider her one of my best friends. Isn't that odd, for a child _you _carried for nine months, delivered, nursed, raised . . . for her to be a better friend to you than most of your own peers?"

"No, of course not. I felt the same way about Clark. He came to me with everything on his mind, things he couldn't even share with Jonathan." Martha frowned. "Thank God Claire doesn't have to carry the same burden Clark did when he was her age."

Lois stared into her deep black coffee. "I'm not always so sure that she's as normal as we think."

Martha looked hard at her. "What do you mean?"

Lois chose her words carefully. "She doesn't hurt herself easily at all. Just a week ago we were making supper . . . she was opening a can of salmon and sliced her finger on the lid. I was there, watching. Martha, it only looked like a paper cut. It bled only a little. But then while I was trying to help her out with it _I_ sliced _my_ finger and bled like a stuck pig."

Martha looked anxious. "You think she's inherited his . . . invulnerability?"

"Maybe. She's done other things, too, that made me think she should've been more badly hurt." Lois shrugged. "Then again, maybe I'm just an overprotective mother."

A shriek of laughter echoed outside. She stood and peered out the window again. Clark and Claire had obviously gotten distracted from their work and were now pelting each other with snowballs. Claire's hood had been knocked off her head and the snow was collecting in her curls. Clark gestured at her hair and she hastily pulled the hood back over her head again.

"Does she know?" Martha suddenly asked.

"About Clark? No. Not yet."

Martha looked surprised. "How do you keep it from her?"

"It's not that hard. Clark conceals himself-his true self-so well, even from her."

"But when he's in the news! What do you do, hide the paper from her? Keep her from the television?"

Lois smiled grimly. "If Clark's in the news, I try to distract her from it. It's been a lot harder recently, no thanks to our mayor putting him in the news almost every week. But Claire doesn't see what she's not looking for. No one does."

Martha was shocked-not so much at the deception, Lois guessed-Martha herself had engaged in deception for all of Clark's life-but at the success of the cover-up. Her voice grew soft. "Will you _ever_ tell her?"

Lois hesitated. She didn't want to say how adamantly Clark was opposed to telling Claire, no matter how much it hurt him to deceive her. He'd never wanted his little girl to bear the heavy knowledge . . . not until she was older and could understand the huge responsibility.

So out loud she only said, "When the time's right."

To her relief, Martha seemed to understand that; perhaps she, too, wished that she could've had that same ability to withhold information until Clark was old enough to handle it without trauma. Lois moved towards the door just as Claire appeared before it, her face red and glowing with cold and exertion.

"Both forts are made, Mom! Are you gonna fight?"

"Yes, I'm coming," Lois said, setting her coffee down with a significant smile at her mother-in-law. "I'll be back later. I have to help Clark fight a battle."

* * *

**One of y'all asked how Claire, at 12, still doesn't know who her dad is. I hope this chapter answered that question! Besides ****her father concealing himself from her and her mother shielding her from certain news stories**, I'm also thinking that, in the semi-realistic world of Synder/Nolan/etc., Superman _probably_ isn't working a miracle in Metropolis every single day. Everyday life simply isn't quite that dramatic and _Man of Steel _was, in my opinion, a more realistic Superman. He is, therefore, still only a news story to Claire and an acquaintance of her mother's, not someone she's exposed to everyday. Hope that clears up any confusion :)


	6. Claire Fights Back

**Happy New Year, everybody! Okay, here goes the next chapter. Glad y'all are enjoying it so far. **

_Four months later_

"Carry your books?" Clark offered one pleasant April afternoon, glancing at Claire's heavy backpack as she walked alongside him.

Claire shook her head, walking with long, confident strides. "Thanks, but I think I've got it."

Clark looked askance at her; in spite of his usual reluctance to use the ability, he discreetly scanned her lanky frame and saw that her bones and muscles were under very little strain. She'd inherited at least some of his strength, that for sure. It didn't really surprise him. Thank God she didn't seem to have taken after him in anything more unusual.

"Did you have a good day at work?" Claire asked, slipping one hand into his.

"Pretty good. You?"

"Pretty good!" Claire imitated him cheerfully. "What was Mom doing today? She called and said she had an assignment and that you were coming to pick me up, but she didn't tell me what was going on."

"Well . . . Mayor Leonard had a press conference today."

"Uh-oh," Claire said, rolling her eyes. "What's he upset about now?"

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, choosing his words carefully. "He's demanding that Superman come before the City Council and answer questions about 'his origins, history and intentions.' Basically, he wants Superman to drop the secrecy surrounding his identity and tell the world everything about himself. Somehow Leonard thinks-or says he thinks-we'll be on a level playing field that way."

"Oh," Claire said. "Will Superman do it, do you think?"

"No, I don't think so." Clark hesitated, decided to speak with a little more confidence. "Superman's secret is probably very valuable to him. I'm sure he lives a normal life when he's not saving the world and he wants to keep it that way. He's not going to compromise himself just because some big-shot mayor tries to throw his weight around."

Claire seemed satisfied with this answer, much to his relief. He had no intentions of telling a group of men who feared and despised him all about his history, how he came to this world, who raised him, what his vulnerabilities might be. Leonard would chalk it up to cowardice, no doubt, and say so publicly, but Clark didn't care. For fifteen years he'd helped the world-and Metropolis-on his own terms. He'd rather let a mayor of a piddly four-year term think him a coward than lose the high ground.

They entered the City Park, which had just started to veil itself in green now that temperatures were slowly rising. Clark was startled, however, to see a tall, handsome man with the dirty-blond, short-cropped hair stride into the park from the other side, his long trench coat billowing like a cape in the soft April wind. They were walking towards each other; the other man finally caught sight of him and nodded.

"Kent," he said in a cool tone as soon as they were within a few feet of each other.

Clark instinctively glanced down at Claire, who had been walking alongside him with her hands thrust into the pockets of her light sweater. Her big blue eyes gazed up at the stranger with that gentle but intelligent curiosity that always reminded him of Lois.

"Wayne," Clark said with equal calm, extending his hand. Wayne clasped it, firm and warm.

"Haven't seen you around in a while," Wayne said, still cool. "How are things for you?"

Clark answered carefully; he couldn't be too cautious, even in a quiet park. "Things are quiet. To be honest, I kind of like it that way."

"I thought 'no news is good news' is a bad omen for the reporting industry," Wayne said with a wry grin.

Clark couldn't help chuckling at that. He laid a hand on Claire's shoulder. "This is my daughter. Claire, this is Mr. Bruce Wayne."

Claire's eyes widened further as she took the hand Wayne offered to her. "Mr. Wayne of Gotham City?"

Wayne laughed, a cool, dry, confident laugh that Clark had always rather liked. "In the flesh, Miss Kent. Clark, are you telling me this is the same baby you were bragging about that one Easter we spent in Detroit?"

Clark remembered that Easter-riots he and Wayne had helped control-and nodded. "She's grown up, hasn't she?"

Claire blushed and ducked her head, clearly in awe of the dashing billionare standing before her.

"What brings you to Metropolis?" Clark asked, curious now.

"Business-conventional business-meetings. I'm supposed to finally meet your illustrious mayor William Leonard this evening." Wayne rolled his eyes. "I hear he's a handful."

Clark nodded with another sweeping glance over the park. "More like an armful. Metropolis is split down the middle between people who like him and people who don't . . . and those with influence who don't like him are being squeezed out."

"I heard about some of that. Something about officials in the police force?"

Clark smiled a little. "You read Lois' latest article?"

Wayne grinned back. "Probably, since it _was_ in the _Planet. _Any advice you can give me?"

"Same as it usually is," Clark said. "Eyes open, guard up."

"I can manage that. What do you say to you and your family meeting me tomorrow night at my hotel? We can catch up and talk over old times."

"Daddy," Claire whispered. Clark saw the urgent reminder in her young face and replied accordingly.

"Claire has a school play tomorrow night, but I see no reason why we couldn't come by afterward."

"Where's the play?"

"Grand Park Academy," Claire replied.

"And what's the play?"

Claire smiled, pleased by his obvious interest. "Robin Hood. I'm Maid Marian."

"The female lead!" Wayne mused with an impressed look at the quietly-proud father. "I might have to make my way to see this play, Miss Kent. Would it bother you too much if you knew I sat in the back?"

Claire's mouth opened but no sound came out; she looked up at Clark for help but he stoutly refused to give any. Finally she cleared her throat and said, with a strangely regal nod of her dark, curly head, "I'd be very honored, sir."

Wayne looked at her for a moment, then laughed. "_That_ was you made over, Kent."

Once they'd parted, Clark was silent, waiting for Claire to barrage him with questions. She waited until they were well out of Wayne's earshot; then she grabbed onto Clark's arm and pulled, demanding his attention.

"How long have you known him? Why does he have to meet with Mayor Leonard? Dad, are we _really_ going to go and meet him tomorrow night after the play?"

Clark resolved to keep cool and calm, tease her a bit. "Fourteen years-business deals between Gotham and Metropolis-yes-and yes."

"Dad!" Claire drew out the word with laughing impatience. "Just think-he's coming to _my_ play! And then . . . Dad, do you think it'll be as fancy as Grandmother's penthouse?"

"Probably more so," Clark said, glancing up at some of the nearby skyscrapers. "He's worth billions."

"More than Mayor Leonard?"

"Much more. Mr. Wayne is head of a family empire . . . I think he's the third generation of Waynes to run the business."

"And he invests in Gotham, like Mayor Leonard used to invest in Metropolis?"

"Yes-but he's a good, honest man."

Claire glanced over her shoulder as if searching for the stranger. "He's very handsome," she said thoughtfully, then caught herself and cast a coy look up at her father. "Not as handsome as you, of course."

"I appreciate it," Clark said with a laugh. He couldn't help but feel like a boring nerd in this fifteen-year-old disguise of somber clothes and thick-rimmed glasses, especially when put up against the dashing figure Bruce Wayne always cut.

* * *

Mom was delighted when she returned home from an assignment and heard the news.

"Well, what an honor for you," she said to Claire. "But I suppose this'll means you'll be too dazzled to remember any of your lines."

Claire bit her lip anxiously. "Actually, I hope it'll force me to remember them!"

Mom smiled. "I was just teasing . . . I'm sure you won't mess up a single word. Clark, are you hungry?"

"I'm always hungry," Dad said earnestly.

Mom drummed her fingers on the countertop, thinking. "You want to call for pizza?"

Dad's eyebrows shot up high in his forehead. "Pizza?"

Mom looked sheepish. "To be honest, I've been craving a heavy, greasy pizza. And Claire and I have to put the finishing details into her dress. I don't have time to make supper."

"Good enough for me," Dad said, reaching for the phone.

Pizza delivered and, for the most part, devoured, Mom pulled out the shimmering, steel-blue dress with the silver girdle and Claire put it on. Kneeling on the floor at Claire's feet, Mom folded up the hem.

"About that much-would that be good for you?"

"I think so," Claire said, nodding. "I'm glad there isn't a train. There'd be a lot for you to sew up."

"Well, I may not be that handy with a sewing machine but I can at least made a straight stitch," Mom said, sticking a pin into the hem. "How was the rehearsal?"

"Great," Claire said, setting her hands on her hips and watching the billowy sleeves ripple around her arms. "Everyone knows their lines. Adrienne is still so mad that she had to be one of the merry men, though."

"I hope no one is gloating," Mom said with an admonishment in her eye.

"No," Claire said seriously. "We're all being very good about it. But Mom-Adrienne _can't _act. I think she's lying about how she was the star of every play when she was in boarding school."

"Maybe she isn't lying, though," Mom said, slipping in another pin. "Maybe everyone at the boarding school was scared enough of her father, they let her get away with everything."

Claire pursed her lips. "Well, I guess Miss Thompson and Miss Edwards must be courageous, because they don't let Adrienne get away with anything."

"Good. It's a crying shame people haven't been quite as bold with her father."

Claire was quiet a moment, thinking. "Dad told me once that Mayor Leonard and some of his friends put their personal interests above the city's. I just don't see how it helps Mayor Leonard to bully everyone into coming onto his side, or to try to push someone like Superman around. What does he want, anyway?"

Mom sighed. "Some say he merely wants to centralize the government here in Metropolis, maybe become governor of the state one day. Others say he's looking further ahead . . . the Senate, maybe even the White House. Ambitious men like Leonard are always wanting more control . . . and the more control they want, the more important it becomes for them to push any obstacles or rivals out of the way."

"I know Adrienne wants control over the girls in our class," Claire muttered. "She wants to decide what we do and how we do it. But nobody likes her, so they don't give her control."

"And I hope the people of Metropolis become just as annoyed with Mayor Leonard." Mom drew her hands back from the hem. It now fell gently around Claire's feet, but didn't drag the floor. "How's that?"

"Perfect!"

"All right, then. Slip out of it-careful of the pins-and I'll sew it up. You'll look like a regular queen tomorrow, Maid Marian."

* * *

The next day-Saturday-was spent in a flurry of excitement. Claire rehearsed the lines she had memorized ever since Christmas vacation ended. Mom made a platter of cookies to bring to the reception afterward. Dad wasn't home; he'd left abruptly after breakfast, explaining that he'd been called out on an assignment.

"You'll be back this evening?" Mom asked, rolling balls of cookie dough between her hands.

"I'll be at the play, don't worry," he said, planting a quick kiss on her lips. He rushed past Claire, who sat at the table typing her lines to ingrain them deeper into her mind.

" 'I love thee, Maid Marian,' " he quoted, kissing her cheek. " 'I love thee more than life itself.' "

" 'Oh Robin!' " Claire cried melodramatically, but with a sly look at him. He laughed and hurried out the front door.

The day seemed to drag after he left, but finally they left the house without him and headed to the school. Claire was swept into the whirlwind of preparations and final rehearsal, and her nervousness began to mount.

Tasha Clarkson was Robin Hood. She was the only other girl who was almost as tall as Claire, and since "Marian" would spent most of her scenes with "Robin" sitting down, no one would be able to tell the discrepancy. Tasha was more tomboyish than Claire and her long blond hair would be well-tucked beneath a jaunty green cap, so she'd be able to pull off the role splendidly-but only if she and Claire could keep straight faces during "Robin's" profession of love and devotion.

Claire had been chosen as "Marian," Miss Edwards, the play director, had explained, because she could pull off royal dignity the best. It was an honor and a privilege, and Claire was thrilled when she got the role.

Adrienne Leonard, however, also auditioned for it, and pitched a fit when the announcement was made. She even burst into tears when it was announced that she, Kellie, and several other girls would play Robin's merry men.

"I won't do it, I _won't!_" she shrieked, stamping her foot. "I won't be a stupid _man!_"

"Adrienne, that's enough," Miss Edwards ordered sharply.

"We're all playing men and you don't see us acting like babies," Ellen Lowry snapped. "Only one of us can play Maid Marian and Claire is the best choice."

"Maybe we _should_ let Adrienne play Maid Marian," Claire had whispered a little helplessly to Miss Thompson. "She's going to make our lives miserable otherwise."

Miss Thompson looked affronted. "You think for a minute we'll give the role _you _deserve to her? She's got the acting skills of a plank. Adrienne does not rule this school." She hesitated, then added as an afterthought, "Even if her father _does_ rule the city."

So Claire kept her part, and Adrienne was somehow coaxed into being a merry man. A few of the girls whispered that her father had promised her some new, humongous gift if she promised to stick to the play, and that had placated Adrienne's rage. But Claire always felt uncomfortable under Adrienne's scathing glare, and feared some kind of revenge.

Claire slipped into her dress with a shiver of delight. The satiny fabric slipped gently against her skin, though the silver slippers pinched her feet a little. Kellie, already dressed in her green tunic and hose, helped Claire drape and fasten the silver veil to her curls.

"You look like a queen," Kellie whispered, awed. "Oh, Claire-you're _beautiful_."

Claire twirled in front of the mirror, blushing with happiness. Her lanky stature was disguised beneath the dress and the few irritating splotches on her chin and forehead had been brushed out with a thin layer of stage makeup. She _was_ beautiful and it both frightened and pleased her.

"All right, girls, let's go through some of these scenes one more time!" Miss Edwards called. "All girls, to the stage!"

Giving their hands an excited squeeze, Claire and Kellie hurried to the stage. A few of the other students-Adrienne included-were making last-minute touch-ups to the set, and a sharp smell of paint permeated the air. Claire accidentally caught Adrienne's eye as she mounted the steps to the stage. Adrienne's eyes were withering beneath her green cap. Claire hastily looked away.

Miss Edwards was looking over her script. "Girls, let's go over the final scene one more time, after Robin has defeated Prince John. King Richard has just sent a message to-"

Before Miss Edwards could say another word, Claire screamed. A sudden sloshing sound behind her had startled her, and she whirled to find Adrienne Leonard jumping away from her, paint can in hand. The smell of paint was overpowering. Adrienne feigned a clumsy step back from a stage prop-a small bench-standing nearby.

"Oops," she said with an undeniably fake giggle. "Sorry."

Kellie let out a horrified cry. Panicking, Claire reached behind her and felt wet, sticky, bright yellow paint plastered all over the back of her beautiful gown. The other girls were angrily-furiously, even-crying out Adrienne's name. Miss Edwards echoed the hated name with the volume level and sharpness of a gunshot.

Claire, however, ignored them all. The past four months passed before her mind's eye and she filled with a white-hot, seething wrath. A flicker of fear showed in Adrienne's eyes just before Claire's yellow-streaked hands shot out and shoved her away-hard.

To Claire's surprise, Adrienne was knocked clear off her feet, landing with a crash on her backside and splattering the bright yellow all over her own costume, face, and hair. Adrienne screamed; the other girls gasped, a few triumphant laughs sprinkled in. Miss Edwards and Miss Thompson both hurried to the stage.

"_How dare you?_" Claire shrieked, looming over Claire. "How dare you try to ruin this play? How dare you think you can lord it over us? Let me tell you something, Adrienne Leonard, you won't ruin this play-I'll see to that-and I wish you'd go home to your stupid Cape Cod mansion and leave us all in peace!"

"Help, she'll kill me!" Adrienne screeched.

"Claire, step back!" Miss Edwards ordered. "Adrienne, get up!"

Claire obeyed, breathing hard and shaking. Adrienne staggered to her feet; Miss Edward shook her arm viciously.

"What possessed you to do something so cruel? Why would you want to sabotage this play-why? Go to the bathroom and clean your face. You'll have to sit out this play for there isn't any time to clean up your costume. Go!"

"Let me see," Miss Thompson whispered to Claire. Trying desperately not to cry now, Claire turned around. The thought of a huge yellow streak down the back of her dress broke her heart, but she would not give Adrienne the satisfaction of making her stage make-up streak. She sucked in her breath and wished Mom would _not_ come in from the reception room. She couldn't bear that kind of humiliation.

"There isn't time to wash and dry it," Miss Thompson said mournfully. "I don't think the stain will come out anyway."

"Can we make her a-a cloak, or something?" Kellie stammered. "You can't make her sit out, Miss Edwards!"

"No, we can't spare Maid Marian!" Tasha cried with a hateful glare in the direction where Adrienne had fled.

Claire's mind raced. Her eyes caught a flash of red: the curtains draped magnificently over the set. She grabbed Miss Thompson's arm with her hand-the one that wasn't stained with yellow.

"Do you have anymore of that material?" she asked, pointing.

Miss Thompson's eyes widened, understanding. "I think so . . ."

"Quick!" Claire cried, running back into the room where she got dressed. Miss Thompson, Miss Edwards, and Kellie all followed, the other girls crowding at the door. Claire grabbed a towel and began wiping her yellow hand, taking the roll of shimmery red material and handing it to Miss Thompson.

"I think if you cut a long strip," she said in a breathless rush, "and if we pinned it so the raw edges wouldn't show-"

"-we could hide it through the play," Miss Thompson finished. She looked at Miss Edwards for approval.

"We can do better than that," Miss Edwards said, glancing at her watch. "I can close off those raw edges on the school sewing machine in ten minutes."

Miss Thompson snatched the roll of red from Claire and thrust it into Miss Edwards' arms. "Then get thee to the sewing machine, Melissa! There isn't time to spare."

**Okay, so I couldn't help putting Claire in red and blue ;) Also, the dashing Mr. Wayne will make further appearances. I know this has been a pretty light-hearted story so far but the suspense/action _is_ coming. Claire will have her chance to become a heroine. **


	7. Unsettling Mysteries

When Claire stepped onto the stage in response to her cue, she no longer wore the silver veil. It didn't match her outfit very well anymore, not with the red cloak fastened at her neck now draping over her shoulders and falling almost as low as the hem of her dress.

With her head held high she walked to the center of the stage, curtsied low before Prince John-AKA Ellen Lowry-and said her lines in a clear, ringing voice. When Robin-Tasha-professed his love, Claire found herself forgetting Tasha's pretty, freckled face and imagined instead a tall, dashing, very handsome defender of liberty and justice.

She never choked on her lines; she never tripped over her dress; she never let the princess-like facade falter. Her head was full of Adrienne Leonard and the oath she herself had screamed in that selfish brat's face. This play would not be ruined. Claire Kent in the steel-blue gown and the gleaming red cloak would see to that.

Mom had glimpsed her in the hallway just before the audience filtered in and froze stark-stiff. Claire hastily explained what had happened-Adrienne, the paint, the leftover curtain material-and for a moment thought she was either in for a scolding or a disapproving remark about the cloak.

"I know it doesn't quite match . . . " she began slowly.

"No, no!" Mom cried, recovering herself and cupping Claire's face in her cool, slender hands. "No-I'm sorry-you look beautiful. Those colors go very well together and . . . you're beautiful, Claire, you really are."

"Is Dad here?"

"No, but I just got a text from him-he's on his way."

"Think he'll like it?" Claire asked, twirling so the blue and the red swirled together.

Mom smiled, tossed her ginger hair behind her shoulder, and crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes, I think he'll like it-a lot."

When the play was over, the audience of parents, grandparents, and friends rose to their feet in thunderous applause. Tasha stepped out, clicked her heels, bowed merrily, and the crowd laughed. When Claire stepped forward, however, and curtsied, the crowd roared.

It startled her. She straightened again, hesitated, then smiled broadly, thrust her arm up, gave her hand a flourish, and bowed deeply. Approving whistles now accompanied the cheers. Claire giggled, lifted her hem, and playfully skipped backwards, allowing the beaming merry men to have their time in the sun.

The victory-flushed cast exited stage left and filtered, at last, into the audience, seeking out familiar congratulatory faces. Claire raced down one aisle, holding her hem well above her ankles, looking frantically until she finally saw Dad waving at her with Mom beside him. Claire beamed at him and raced forward, grabbing his hands.

"How'd I do?" she shouted over the noise.

"You were magnificent," Dad said. "I like your costume!"

"Mom told you?" she asked, self-consciously winding a curl around her finger.

"Yes, and you should see Mayor Leonard-he's white with fury because his daughter wasn't in the play," Mom said with a sneaky, amused glance across the auditorium.

Dad, too, looked around, straightening his suit as he did so. Claire noticed it for the first time; he hadn't been wearing it when he left home this morning. He must've stopped by the house before he came here. "I'm pretty sure I glimpsed another familiar face a minute ago-"

"Here I am," someone said. Claire whirled. It was Mr. Wayne, dressed immaculately in a pin-stripe suit with one arm tucked behind his back.

"Congratulations, Miss Kent," he said, and suddenly swept his arm back to the front again. Claire bit her lip to keep back a gasp of delight at the bouquet of deep-red roses extended to her.

"You shouldn't have," Mom said, but with a smile.

"Nonsense, she deserves it," he said. "When you're clearly the star of the show, roses are a poor excuse of a gift-but now I'm glad I got the red ones."

Suddenly shy but very, very pleased, Claire took the flowers. Her demure reaction seemed to delight the man. He looked to her parents.

"How about that dinner I suggested?" he asked briskly. "I had second thoughts about having it in my hotel-privacy concerns, you know-and thought Miss Claire might like the experience of a meal in a limo instead."

"Is that your latest tweak to the old car, Wayne?" Dad asked cryptically. Mr. Wayne just laughed and led the way.

As he opened the door of the shiniest black car Claire had ever seen, she glimpsed Adrienne Leonard getting into a similar looking-but smaller-vehicle with her father. Adrienne's face had been scrubbed clean but there were still streaks of yellow in that straw-colored hair of hers, and she glared murderously at Claire as she stepped into the car.

Claire noticed, too, that the glowering Mayor Leonard took one long, hard, suspicious look at her parents. Dad looked back at him with a cold steadiness that she had never seen before, and gently pushed her into the car out of Mayor Leonard's range of vision.

"He saw you?" Mr. Wayne asked abruptly as soon as the door closed and he gave instruction to his driver to drive around the city.

"He saw me . . . but I think he's probably angrier about _his_ daughter being smacked down by mine than anything else," Dad said with a smirk.

"Under any other circumstance I'd scold you for that, you know," Mom said, raising her eyebrows at Claire.

Mr. Wayne looked amused and curious. "You smacked down William Leonard's daughter?"

Claire fingered the edge of her cloak, embarrassed. "I wasn't supposed to have _this_. But she threw paint on me out of spite . . . and I slammed into her for it."

"Sounds like a humbling she had coming to her," Mr. Wayne said with dry humor.

Claire glanced at her parents, who were watching her calmly. "I wish I hadn't done it now. I know I shouldn't have. But everyone's been wanting someone to stand up to her and I just couldn't _help_ myself."

Mr. Wayne shifted to a more comfortable position, crossing his arms over what Claire realized was a very strong, broad chest. "Sometimes that's what people need to see: one person standing up and pushing back when it's the hardest time to do it."

Claire nodded, still fighting a little guilty twinge in the back of her mind.

This car was the oddest, grandest thing she'd ever been in. It was very roomy inside, with a small compartment that kept food warm and trays for the diners to eat on. Claire balanced the tray on her lap carefully and ate in silence while the grown-ups talked, almost as if they'd forgotten she was there.

"Leonard is as ambitious and arrogant as I expected," Mr. Wayne was saying. "The problem lies in his charisma-and his pocketbook. It's allowed him to go places and do things that no other man in the whole city can do."

"There's concern that now he's targeting the news organizations here in the city," Mom said quietly. "The _Planet _is safe. I think Perry White would die rather than cow to anyone, whether he's a politician or a businessman. But the _Times _is in Leonard's back pocket . . . and judging by that hit-piece on Joseph Jackson in the _Advocate _last week, I'm thinking they're taken, too."

"Jackson," Dad mused. "Isn't he the city's representative at the State Capitol?"

Mom nodded. "Yes, and one of the leading voices against Leonard's attempts to seize more and more power. Corruption in the city government is already so rampant...and now that Jackson's under fire, I'm worried about the state legislature. Who knows what's going on up there?"

"Or what Leonard's ultimate plans are," Mr. Wayne muttered.

There was a brief silence in which Claire dropped her fork. "Sorry," she whispered.

"That's okay," Mom whispered back.

"Any new details on that lab?" Mr. Wayne suddenly asked, his voice quiet.

Garage. Claire looked up, intrigued but without knowing why. Dad sat back, still balancing his tray on his knees.

"No," he said, equally quiet. "They're working on something there but it isn't a like a gun or a missile or anything. It's almost like . . . a serum, maybe?"

"A biological weapon?" Mr. Wayne prodded.

"Right. But I'm still not sure, and I can't do anything unless I have absolute proof that it's a threat to Metropolis."

"Claire," Mom said abruptly, startling both men. "Claire, what you hear in this limo, don't ever repeat outside of it. Your father has been investigating Mr. Leonard but you can't ever-_ever_-talk about it, not even at home. Understood?"

Claire looked at her father; he looked strangely embarrassed. Mr. Wayne looked at Mom, then Dad, then Claire. He leaned closer to her, his deep grey eyes serious but kind.

"Consider it an honor, Miss Kent, for your parents and I to feel free discussing these things in front of you."

Claire felt the honor-but she couldn't helping feeling, too, the awkwardness of being forgotten and then remembered. It had never happened before; her parents treated her almost as an equal. Now there was a secret . . . a secret she'd been allowed to hear, but only accidentally.

"I won't repeat it," she said quietly. "I swear."

Mr. Wayne sat back, stretched his arm over the back of the seat. He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment.

"She has your spirit, Lois," he said. "But she has Clark's honesty. You've inherited their best qualities, Claire . . . you should be proud to have them."

"I am," Claire said firmly, trying to stifle the uneasy suspicion that there was something else he wanted to say and dared not, for fear of, perhaps, unveiling more secrets.

* * *

That night, after sleeping for several hours, Claire woke up with the urge to use the toilet. Half-awake, she did her business without incident. Tiptoing back to her bedroom, she strained her eyes in the dark, feeling her way slowly with hands outstretched and feet wary of toe-stubbing obstacles.

And then it happened.

The hallway changed, shimmered, and Claire found herself looking through the floor and into the moonlit kitchen below. She could see her feet but no floor beneath, though she felt it. Terrified, Claire gasped and clapped her hands to her eyes.

When she drew them back again, everything was dark. Heedless of unseen hazards, Claire ran back to her bedroom and threw herself face-down into bed again, breathing hard. After a while she dared to peer over the edge of her bed, stare at the floor, and will the thing to happen again.

This time, she saw into the living room. Claire flopped over, aghast. Her throat felt dry. She turned to face the wall, commanded herself to look into her parents' bedroom-and there it was. Her parents were sound asleep in their own bed and Dad had left the window open; the light curtains fluttered softly in the cool April breeze.

Claire blinked and the vision faded. She cowered down into her bed again and clutched her pillows, trying to decide whether or not to tell them in the morning. She had never kept a secret from them in her life. She couldn't do it now.

But they might think she was a freak . . . that she was making it up . . . Mom might laugh and Dad might smile, suggest she write a sci-fi and put that in.

Claire shuddered. No, she would not tell them. Not until she had more opportunities to test it, when she was wide awake and had no reason to attribute it to a nightmare.


	8. A Storm Approaches

**Thanks again for all the positive reviews! This chapter (and the one coming next) were very difficult to write. Here's hoping the action is easy to envision.**

"You're sure you want to publish this?" Clark asked, handing the typed-up article back to Lois. It was several weeks since the Robin Hood play and the calendar had been switched to May.

Lois said nothing for a moment. She laid the paper on the table and finished wiping the rest of the countertop with a wet rag.

"How can I _not_? This is the biggest thing anyone has been able to dig up about Leonard-it's evidence no one in their right mind should ignore! I mean, come on-spending Christmas with a suspected member of the Metropolis Mafia and meeting with him several times since at the mayor's office? No other paper is covering this because they're all in Leonard's back pocket. Somebody's got to start sounding an alarm!"

"You meddle with the mob, you'll kick up a huge ruckus," Clark said, reverting to the plain country talk of his Kansas boyhood. He leaned against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. "You'll be under fire."

"I know. But I'm a reporter. I'm bound by my conscience to reveal corruption in this city. Move over, let me wipe that up behind you."

He obliged her, leaning to the side. "Well, you know I've got your back. Your knight will defend his lady tooth and nail."

"I hope it doesn't come to _that_," Lois muttered, throwing the rag into the sink with more vehemence than she intended. "I'm so tired of this . . . this . . ."

"Secret?" Clark offered.

"No, no . . . I'll keep your secret till the day I die. I'm just sick and tired of waiting to see if Leonard and his kind are going to make life completely unbearable for us-or if the people will stand behind you."

"Am I interrupting?"

Lois whirled. It was Claire, standing in the kitchen doorway and swallowed up in one of Clark's t-shirts, her preferred style of pajamas. She must've eavesdropped on part of the conversation, judging by the anxious look on her face.

"No, honey, you're not interrupting," Lois said, trying to sound cheerful. "Do you need something?"

Claire stepped forward, paper and pen in hand. "Can one of you sign this for me? We're going on a field trip to the Moore Island battlefield on Friday and I need your permission."

"I'll sign," Clark said, taking the paper. "What is it, a Revolutionary War battlefield?"

"Mm-hmm. I'm looking forward to it-if Adrienne Leonard can go a day without trying to make me mad."

Obviously ruffled by the thought, Claire took her permission slip, kissed her parents, and retired for the night. A few minutes later, in their own room, Lois spoke another thought aloud.

"Do you think Adrienne Leonard knows?"

Clark, pulling off his socks and shoes, frowned up at her. "Do I think she knows what?"

"About you."

He quirked one eyebrow. "You're assuming Leonard himself knows, if you're asking me about his air-headed daughter."

Lois said nothing for a positive response. Clark balled his socks up in one hand, aimed, and threw them into the hamper at one end of the room. As usual, his sense of direction was pitch-perfect, but he threw them with such speed and force that they thudded hard against the wall before dropping, silently, into the hamper.

"The only time when I thought Leonard suspected was at Claire's play," he said.

" 'Robin Hood?' "

"Yeah." Clark clasped his hands between his knees, thinking. "He looked at me hard, like he was trying to place me, and then at Claire. She was in her blue and red. Maybe that's what had my guard up in the first place."

Lois ran her fingers through his dark curls, smiling at the memory. "She was the spitting image of you."

"I know, that's what had me nervous until Bruce whisked us away."

"But just because a young girl wears blue and red doesn't make her father Su-" She stopped, corrected herself. "Kal-El."

"True," Clark said, his frown deepening. "But it could've created a suspicion in someone's mind if they were already looking for clues."

* * *

"You do realize you could get a lot of flak for this, Lois," Perry White said the next morning in his office. "You've always been good at throwing back the curtain, but you've never done that to William Leonard-or the Mafia. I didn't even think that crap was still going so strong."

"You had to suspect that is was, or you wouldn't have encouraged me follow the lead," Lois said dryly.

Perry raised his eyebrows. "I didn't think it was gonna end up with Leonard in the arms of the Mafia. And _if_ the Mafia is involved, people are gonna start investigating Leonard's whole administration too. It'll turn the city upside down . . . and maybe the state, too."

"Perry, we've been looking for dirt on Leonard for months!" Lois cried. "I'm surprised at you. I thought you wanted something big like this and now you act like you've got cold feet!"

Perry put his fingertips together, his steely eyes fixed on her. "You're aware, then, of the consequences of printing this article."

Lois threw her arms out. "Do you not want to publish it, Perry? Because if you don't, I won't do it. And I wouldn't take it to Woodburn behind your back, either," she added with a sly look. "I swear."

Perry smirked. "I appreciate that."

Lois took a deep breath. "I understand the consequences. To me and my family. But that doesn't negate my responsibility to reveal the evil taking over our city."

"Evil is a strong word."

Lois tossed her hair. "You learn to use such strong language when you're married to someone with strong principles. And since I'm married to that kind of person-and that kind of person is actually employed by _you-_the threat of the Mafia should seem pretty paltry to both of us."

Perry regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. He knew Clark's secret, was the only person in Metropolis beside her who did. Finally he handed her article back to her and sat back in his chair.

"It goes in Thursday morning's edition," he said. "Come hell and high water for either of us."

* * *

On Wednesday evening, Claire found out about her mother's article. Lois watched her daughter's face closely while Clark explained it in his calm, confident way, looking Claire in the eye with tender earnestness as he detailed the results of Lois' investigation. Claire listened in silence, her forehead creased, looking so much like her father that Lois felt her resolution waver.

If defying Leonard and perhaps a perverse sector of Metropolis society posed any danger to Lois, she was unafraid. But Claire . . . Claire went to school with Leonard's daughter, Claire had no apparent powers like her father . . . she might be vulnerable if the Kents came under fire.

" . . . so you need to know all this," Clark was saying, "because our family might be under fire for the next few weeks. You'll keep going to school and Mom will keep going to work until or unless I sense a threat. Then we'll lie low-together-until the storm blows over and other people start to confirm what Mom's written about."

"How will you sense a threat?" Claire asked, her voice terse with concern.

Lois glanced at Clark out of the corner of her eye. His answer surprised her.

"I can do things other people can't, Claire," he said. "I go places where most don't dare and I see things most people aren't even aware of. It's part of my line of work. If anyone threatened you or your mom-or even me-I'd be on top of it _fast._"

Claire nodded, lowering her eyes to trace an invisible design on the table top with her finger. "I guess this'll be the next round of my battle against Adrienne. If our parents are fighting, she'll take it out on me."

"If Adrienne tries to give you a hard time, just don't discuss it with her," Clark said. "This is for the adults to deal with, and Adrienne has no right to take it up with you."

"She _will_, though," Claire argued.

"Then don't get on her level."

Clark spoke firmly, his deep blue eyes willing Claire to obey. To Lois' relief, Claire offered no further protest. She looked determined to follow her father's instructions.

The article within Thursday's edition of _The Daily Planet _created a huge sensation. Miss Lane, according to many, had shown herself a friend of the people yet again, exposing government corruption with courage and class. The Leonard faction, however, bellowed in protest. William Leonard had no real ties with Peter diMaggio, the brusque, barrel-chested millionaire with shady connections; he'd merely accepted an innocent invitation over the Christmas holiday. The high society circles through which Miss Lane's own mother made her way reverberated with the news that one of their own had associated with the likes of the mob.

In Grand Park Academy, everything was quiet. The students knew nothing of the turmoil for now, being too engrossed in Ancient Phoenicia and geometry. The teachers might've known something of it, might've read some of the news reports on their smartphones, but they didn't say a word about it to the students.

That night, though, Claire heard all about it from her parents. Mom was flushed with triumph and Dad watched her with a look of amused triumph.

"Stir the pot-that's what good reporters do!" Mom sang, dancing around the living room like she was a girl and not a professional journalist, wife, and mother. She caught Claire by the hands and swung her around, her eyes flashing, until Claire shrieked with laughter. "Stir the pot and things won't stay stagnant the way they've been for the past year. Stir the pot and people are going to wake up. Metropolis is half-saved simply because it's gotten a good, hard shake by the shoulders!"

* * *

Everything was different the next morning. Claire noticed it when she came downstairs, dressed for school and the field trip to the Moore Island battlefield. Mom was quiet and Dad was frowning at his iPad, reading something.

"Everything okay?" Claire asked, worried.

Mom looked up with a start from her bowl of half-eaten cereal. "Morning, Claire. Hungry?"

Claire nodded and Mom stood up, went to fetch another bowl. Dad looked up from his iPad, caught Claire's questioning look.

"Leonard's just demanded your mom retract her article," he said.

Claire's eyes shot back to Mom. "You won't, will you?"

"No," Mom said firmly, "and Mr. White won't pull it, either."

"Then why are you worried?" Claire asked with a forced laugh. "He can rage and blow all he likes-you aren't gonna budge!"

"But that's the problem, he'll rage and blow and storm," Mom said quietly. "And some storms get nasty."

Claire's spirits sank again. She looked at Dad again. "Is it a threat?"

"No, not yet," Dad said with a sigh.

"Then I can go to school?" Claire asked hopefully. She'd been looking forward to the field trip to Moore Island all week.

Dad nodded. "You can go to school today. But if I tell you to stay home on Monday, don't be surprised, all right?"

"Yes, sir," Claire murmured.

She wished as soon as she got to school, however, that she'd stayed at home. She sat down in her desk-the one in the back-hoping Adrienne Leonard wouldn't notice her. It would've been too good to be true if Adrienne had ignored her altogether. Claire braced herself as Adrienne's sharp eyes fastened on her and the girl marched, jaw set, towards her.

"I suppose you think yourself all high and mighty because your mom just spat in my father's face!" she hissed.

"Hardly," Claire said coolly. "But you have no right to discuss this with me, so I'm not going to say anything beyond that."

"Your mother is a-" Adrienne began, and then called Lois Lane a name that made Claire leap to her feet with a red face.

"Don't you _dare _talk about my mother that way."

"Oh yeah?" Adrienne snapped. "You want to know else what my father said about her? He said your mother was running around with Superman before she married your dad, so you're more likely to be _his _daughter than boring old Mr. Kent's-and that makes you half-freak, so _there!_"

"Adrienne Leonard!"

Miss Thompson's voice was like a gunshot. Adrienne whirled, startled. Claire wanted nothing more than to grab her bleached hair and pull it out by the roots, but she merely clenched her hands at her sides and let Miss Thompson take revenge. It was dealt swiftly. Miss Thompson grabbed Adrienne by the shoulder, marched her to the corner near the teacher's desk, and all but slammed Adrienne's face into it.

"You will stand there until it's time to head to Moore Island," Miss Thompson snapped.

"You can't do that!" Adrienne shrieked.

"Would you rather I sent you to the principal's office?"

Adrienne shut up, crossed her arms over her chest, and threw her head back. Her haughty posture dominated the small class reviewing the historical significance of Moore Island.

Claire heard very little of it. Her brain reeled with Adrienne's accusation. It wasn't true and she had no intentions of believing it, but she was still glad when Miss Thompson stopped her as the other students got ready to board the bus.

"I wouldn't put any stock in what Claire said," Miss Thompson whispered. "Your mother is a brave, honorable woman and Adrienne's father is the exact opposite."

Claire took a deep breath. "Thank you, Miss Thompson."

The fun of the trip, however, was severely dimmed. The train was very crowded on a Friday morning, so Miss Thompson's class and Miss Edwards' class were divided between two cars, with several cars between. Adrienne pitched a fit and insisted-loudly-that she go with the ninth-graders. She would not "breathe the same air as the daughter of the woman who insulted my father."

Her obnoxious demands attracted attention from the few other passengers in the car. Claire's face went crimson and she wished she was a thousand miles away. Kellie squeezed her hand reassuringly. Miss Thompson, however, refused gamely to give in to Adrienne, and instead made her sit across the aisle from Claire. With no choice but to obey, Adrienne sulked in her seat with her nose in the air, avoiding eye contact with Claire at all costs.

The train chugged peacefully across the bridge that spanned the Metropolis River. The sixth-graders sat in uncomfortable quiet. Claire stared at her hands. They were good, strong hands-pretty hands, Daddy had once told her, a writer's hands.

Hands that had pushed Adrienne Leonard with, she remembered, surprising power.

Claire's heart almost stopped; her hands clenched. She thought of all the times she'd peered through a wall, testing the surreal ability and then pinching herself afterward to make sure she was still awake. Sometimes her ears would ring and she could hear things . . . conversations, a church bell ringing across town, things no one else could hear.

_Things no one else could hear. _

Half-freak. Maybe I _am_ a half-freak. What if-

A roar of screeching metal interrupted her thought. She looked up from her hands quickly enough to see, beyond Kellie's window seat, a train, on the opposite side of the railway. It was skidding off its rails and barrelling straight towards-

The collision several carriages ahead of Claire tossed her car violently to the side. The car jerked off the rails and tumbled down a hill with the rest of the train-and the one that had crashed into it.

The two trains hit the ground with a thunderous crash-and a deafening explosion from the derailed engine.

Claire gasped, opened her eyes. _I'm alive? _She looked around frantically. The car was on its side, crumpled and dented like a tin can. The cars in front and behind had compressed it like an accordion.

She dangled from her seatbelt; above her, she could see people doing the same thing but from a greater height, clinging to their seats and staring up through their cracked or shattered windows at the mocking blue sky. Other passengers were trying desperately to squeeze out of their seats, crushed by the compression, and still others-but there Claire averted her eyes in horror.

She smelled smoke and heard, besides screams and groans all around her, the roar of flames in the distance.

Kellie was alive, bleeding profusely from a cut in her forehead. She'd had the window seat; now Claire saw nothing but fresh green grass and damp earth through the shattered pane.

"Help me," Kellie gasped.

Claire unbuckled herself with shaking hands and tumbled down awkwardly. Her sneakers crunched the broken glass as she unbuckled Kellie and helped her to her feet. Miss Thompson's voice could be heard above them.

"Girls, stay calm! Don't panic! Call out your names-tell me who I've got!"

Claire and Kellie obeyed and Claire listened intently while her other classmates called out their own names. There was no cry of "Ellen," however, and her blood ran cold.

"Breathe deep, Kellie, breathe deep," she whispered, trying to calm her crying friend.

"The emergency exits are both blocked," Miss Thompson shouted over the noise, unbuckling herself and carefully dropping to what was now the floor of the car.

"Smash a window!" Adrienne shrieked.

"With what?" Miss Thompson lashed out, ignoring her own command to remain calm. "My own hands or with your head?"

To Claire's surprise, she heard Adrienne start to cry. Scrambling past Kellie and climbing up on top of her own seat, she surveyed the damage to the right and to the left. Miss Thompson was right: both exits had been smashed and blocked.

Adrienne was right after all. The windows were their only hope, if they were to get out before the fire reached them. The windows were hardly large enough, though, certainly too small for some of these adults. The air was heavy with smoke and Claire knew it would only get worse.

Unless . . .

An idea taking shape in her head, Claire looked at what was once the ceiling of the car, now its side. It was probably thinner metal, more easily dented than the actual floor of the car . . . more easily bent and twisted.

She turned back to Kellie's seat, her sneakers once again crunching the shattered glass of the window. Everyone around her was panicking, trying to decide what to use to smash the windows. Claire willed herself to block out the chaos, focus on that curtain of white-painted metal, and hope she would be strong enough to take the pain . . .


	9. Revelation

**Okay, here's the chapter everyone has been waiting for! Enjoy!**

The phone on Lois' desk rang and she put it on speakerphone.

"Hey, Perry."

"Lois, there's been a huge train wreck on Moore Island."

Lois whirled from her computer and grabbed the receiver. "When did it happen?"

"About ten minutes ago. Calls are flooding in-wasn't your daughter-"

Lois didn't wait for him to finish; she shot out of her chair and ran across the bull-pen. She could tell by the growing urgency in the room that the news was spreading. She slammed into Clark just as he was making his way towards her and grabbed his arms.

"Claire is on Moore Island-"

"I know, calm down," Clark said sharply. "Calm down! I'm on my way."

Steve Lombard, standing nearby, put in his unhelpful two cents. "Have you seen the live feed? You can't do anything-they won't let any reporters within a hundred feet of it!"

Clark ignored him. Giving Lois one long, hard look, he raced out of the room.

* * *

Claire took a deep breath, clenched her right hand, and slammed it against the ceiling-side.

If it had merely dented, she would've been encouraged. Instead her fist went straight through the sheet of metal with a loud BANG! A small hole appeared, complete with razor-sharp tears protruding on the other side. In frantic relief she hit it again and again, widening it and using her foot to press down the lower section until she had an odd-shaped opening large enough for a crouching adult to get through.

Finally she turned around. Her companions stared at her in amazement. Kellie's mouth hung open. Miss Thompson was white.

"Claire," she cried, "your hand!"

Claire gritted her teeth to keep from crying. Never in her life had she felt pain so intense, nor had she seen her skin so badly or deeply torn. It was a throbbing, bleeding mess. She could hardly open her clenched fingers.

"Just-just get out," she gasped, stepping away from the hole. "Go-run!"

Students and adults staggered forward, helping each other. The air was getting heavier with smoke and a hot, stuffy breeze flowed through the hole. Claire caught sight of Adrienne Leonard trying to scramble out of her own crushed seat.

"Adrienne, run!"

Adrienne looked at her. For the first time since Claire had known her, there was no antagonism in her gaze-only terror.

"You've _got_ to hurry!" Claire shouted.

"I can't," Adrienne sobbed, limping forward. "My leg is hurt-bad."

Claire looked backward and saw everyone else still filing out. They had either forgotten Adrienne Leonard, or hadn't realized she was as hurt as she was. Claire dashed to Adrienne's side and wrapped her left arm around her.

"Lean on me-but you must try to hurry," she said, trying to keep her voice calm and yet commanding.

Adrienne sobbed bitterly in response.

"Do you want to die in here or don't you?" Claire cried.

Adrienne squeezed her eyes shut, gritted her teeth, and pushed herself forward. Claire held on tight. Adrienne gasped in pain and turned an awful shade of green.

"It's okay, come on," Claire encouraged her. She tried to ease Adrienne around the seats, but in spite of the girl's real efforts, her leg dragged and she looked like she was about to faint. Claire, too, was feeling dizzy, but whether from the smoke or from pain, she couldn't tell.

"_Claire!_"

She looked up and froze in her tracks. There was no mistaking the man who now burst through the opening she had made. Anyone in Metropolis, whether or not they'd actually seen him with their own eyes, would know the steel-blue suit and the voluminous red cape billowing behind him as he ran towards the two girls.

But neither was there any mistaking the deep blue eyes that fixed on her, long and searching and worried . . .

Eyes she had known her entire life.

Claire gave a choked cry. Immediately Superman gave her a hard, stern glare that made her snap her mouth shut again.

"Let me take her," he said, quickly scooping Adrienne into his arms. "Run, Claire, and don't look back-get as far away from this car as you can!"

She obeyed, staggering through the opening. To her left, smoke and flames stretched to the side, blowing a hot wave of air in her face and towards some of the swaying trees. To her right, however, she saw nothing but more smashed, overturned cars.

She took off in that direction as fast as her legs could carry her until an explosion rocked the ground beneath her feet and she lost her balance. She landed hard on her stomach, her hurt hand smashed beneath her. When she looked back the car was enveloped in fast-approaching flames, and Superman and Adrienne were nowhere to be seen.

_Get up, Claire, run, don't be an idiot! _Coughing hard, she scrambled to her feet, looking for some way to get over on the other side of the overturned trains.

Suddenly someone swept her clear off the ground and carried her far above the wreck at a speed that took her breath away. Exhausted, Claire dropped her head on her rescuer's shoulder and burst into tears.

"It's okay," Superman whispered, cradling her against his chest. "It's okay . . ."

"I-I made the hole," Claire stammered. "The one you came through . . ."

"With what?" he demanded, horrified.

"My hand," Claire sobbed. The pain was so intense she could hardly see straight. "I rammed it through the metal and kicked the rest of the way open-and it hurts, Dad-it _hurts!_"

"Okay, okay," he soothed. "Take a deep breath and focus on my voice. Try to block out the pain just for a minute, all right?"

She tried to obey; it was hard, but taking the deep breath helped to clear her head.

"I'm proud of you. But don't tell anyone what you did and don't say a word about me, do you understand?"

Shuddering, Claire nodded against his chest. "I-I won't."

Just beyond the chaotic railroad tracks, the highway was full of emergency vehicles, paramedics, and dirty, bedraggled survivors. Claire felt Superman's foot lightly touch the pavement and realized, through a haze, that he was handing her off to someone in a uniform. She looked frantically back at him but he was already gone, flying back with astonishing speed towards the wreck.

_That was Clark Kent_, she thought, shivering and still crying. _Superman really is my father._

* * *

X-rays at the hospital revealed the grim truth. They'd have to set her hand, put pins in it. But all the operating rooms were in use, occupied by other victims of the wreck. Claire would have to wait at least two hours before the doctors could turn to a broken hand-an insignificant problem compared to other, more devastating injuries.

In the pre-op room Claire lay propped up on a gurney, her hand resting on an ice pack. It had turned all shades of red and purple and felt as puffy as a balloon. Mom sat beside her; she'd met Claire in the ER, pale and frantic, and had stayed close by ever since then. The nurse had just walked out, leaving them alone for the first time since Claire arrived at the hospital.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Claire looked at her mother. Mom looked back at her with such a knowing expression, Claire knew she didn't have to tell Mom anything about what had happened at the wreck. Somehow, Mom knew. Claire forced her voice to remain at a whisper, deathly afraid that someone might be eavesdropping, and took the plunge.

"Why didn't you tell me Dad is Superman?"

Mom cut her eyes at her. "First of all, I'd suggest using the name 'Kal-El.' It's his real name and he doesn't care for the other all that much. He thinks it's silly-and hasn't quite forgiven me for being the first to suggest it."

Claire stared at her mother, hardly believing her ears-or her mother's sense of humor. How could Mom kid her at a time like this? Mom seemed to sense Claire's disapproval and grew serious again, her own voice at a low whisper.

"He was sent here by his real parents because his planet was about to be destroyed. They wanted to save his life, so they sent him here. His-his baby shuttle, we called it-crashed in Smallville and that's where your grandparents found him. They told everyone they'd adopted him and never told anyone the real story."

"Why?"

"Because," Mom said slowly, "your father is an alien. He came from another world far from this one . . . and the government might've considered him a threat."

"A _baby?_" Claire asked, scornful. "A baby would be a threat?"

"People are afraid of what they don't understand," Mom said, with the tone of someone who is quoting some long-understood truth. "They kept that secret to themselves until Dad was twelve-your age-and then they told him what little they knew of his true history. He's carried that burden-his story and his strength-ever since."

"But how did you meet him?"

Mom smiled a little. "I was sent to investigate what everyone thought was a Soviet submarine on Ellesmere Island, near the North Pole. Dad was working there because he suspected it wasn't a Soviet ship at all. It resembled the ship he came in and he believed it might've come from his world. I met him there, in the old ship."

Claire shifted on the gurney, intrigued. "What happened?"

"I was shot by a defense mechanism in the ship. Clark heard me screaming and came to my rescue before it could finish me off."

Mom gave another furtive glance at the door before pulling up her shirt a little so Claire could see her bare skin. There, in Mom's side, was a small round scar.

"He still tells me I would've bled to death if he hadn't been there. And I don't doubt he's right. Your father has what he calls 'laser vision.' He used it to cauterize the bleed." Mom pulled her shirt down again. "I passed out after that and he dropped me off at the base. Then he flew off in the alien ship. I didn't see him again for months but I looked for him. I _had_ to. I never got a chance to thank him. Plus, I was insanely curious about him and figured he'd be a great story."

"You tracked him down?" Claire asked eagerly.

"I did. I finally caught up with him in Smallville-or rather, he caught up with me. He knew by then that I was looking for him, so he confronted me."

"What did you do?"

Mom shrugged, smiled. "I fell in love with him."

Claire was unimpressed with that answer. "No, I mean-what did you do when he confronted you?"

"I told you, I fell in love with him," Mom laughed softly. "In all seriousness, though-I begged him not to run away from himself. And I promised I'd never tell his story to a single soul."

"Why?"

"Because I realized it would ruin his life and his mother's if I did. If the world knew who he was then, it would've rejected him out of fear. People would've been so scared of an alien with godlike strength living in their midst, they would never accept anything from him." Mom rubbed her own knees thoughtfully. "Of course, you know as well as the rest of the city what happened with General Zod."

"Yes," Claire whispered, "but I didn't know it was _my_ dad who fought him."

"There's a reason for that," Mom said gently. "If people knew Clark Kent was Kal-El, he'd never have a normal life again, and 'a normal life' has always been his dream. That's why his secret is so important to him. It's why it has to be so important to me-and now to you."

She rubbed Claire's leg. "At first, when you were little, I wanted you to know. But he _begged_ me not to tell you. He didn't want you to carry such a weight, not the way he did when he was so young. And he wanted to make sure you didn't have powers before he shared his with you."

Claire gulped. "I do have powers. I'm strong. Maybe not as strong as Dad, but . . . I was the one who punched a hole in our car so we could get out. That's how I hurt myself."

Mom lowered her eyes, nodded slowly. "I was afraid it was something like that."

"And that's not all," Claire blurted out. "I can see through walls. I can hear you and Daddy talking in your room sometimes. I heard everything Adrienne ever whispered about me at the front of the class. I don't think I can fly and now I know that I _can_ get hurt if I hit something hard enough, but still . . . "

Mom leaned forward, clasping her good hand. "Claire, why didn't you tell us all this?"

"I-I was worried you'd think I was imagining it . . . or that you'd think I was a freak."

"Well, you're _not_," Mom said firmly. "You are half-Kryptonian and half-human, part Lois Lane and part Clark Kent. There's nothing to be ashamed of on either side."

Claire's eyes stung with tears of relief, but before she could speak again, the door opened and the doctor strode in. He was in scrubs.

"We're ready for you, Claire," he said.

"Be brave," Mom said, standing up and kissing Claire's cheek. She pressed her forehead against her daughter's and added, whispering in her ear, "Remember who you are."

The admonition was so rousing that Claire wiped her tears with the back of her good hand and forced a look of grim determination for her mother. She refused to cry while they prepped her for the surgery. The pain nearly blinded her when they stretched her arm out and laid her hand on a cold, flat surface, but Claire clenched her teeth and fixed her eyes on the white ceiling of the chilly operating room.

_The daughter of Kal-El_, she thought. _I wonder if that makes me as good as a princess. I'll have to ask Daddy._

And then she knew nothing more.


	10. The Girl of Two Worlds

**Wow, what a positive response for Chapter 9! Y'all are awesome. Obviously I ended up not finishing ****_The Girl of Two Worlds_**** before Christmas vacation was over (oops), but knowing that the audience is enjoying the story makes continuing it very worthwhile. Fanfiction is way too much fun. **

As soon as Claire's bed was wheeled into recovery, Lois rushed to her side. Claire was white, her dark eyelashes making a stark contrast with her high, pale cheekbones. Her forehead was slightly creased, as if her anesthesia-induced sleep was not at all peaceful. One hand was bound in a thick, heavy cast.

"Hey, sweetie," Lois said, taking her hand. "It's okay, I'm here."

To her surprise, Claire's eyelids fluttered and cracked open, and her dry lips actually formed a small, weary smile. Then her eyes closed again.

"She'll wake up in an hour or so," the nurse said. "But the doctor says she won't have to stay the night."

"Good," Lois said, relieved. The sooner she could get Claire home, the better.

She'd seen Miss Thompson while Claire was in surgery. The teacher, who had suffered only minor cuts and bruises, had come to check on her student.

"I've never seen anything like it," Miss Thompson whispered, looking intently at Lois. "That ceiling yielded to her like butter to a hot knife. She was obviously making a huge effort-her poor hand is evidence of that-but I can't think of anyone I know who could break through metal like that in one blow."

For the first time, Lois knew what Martha Kent endured the day Clark miraculously saved a Smallville schoolbus.

"I don't know how many times I've heard stories of impressive feats made on the sole power of an adrenaline rush," she said with forced calm. That was true, at least: as a reporter, she'd heard plenty of stories like that. "I'm just glad Claire had the presence of mind to make the effort."

Miss Thompson nodded. "So am I. But I need to apologize to you, Mrs. Kent, for not making sure she was out of the train with the rest of us. She stayed behind to help Adrienne Leonard. If Superman hadn't come in time-"

"Well, thank God he did," Lois said quickly. "And don't blame yourself. You had all your other students to look after." She hesitated, then added, "I'm sorry about Ellen Lowry. Please give my condolences to her parents when you see them."

Miss Thompson lowered her eyes. "Thank you. I'll tell them."

Lois was relieved; Miss Thompson didn't seem to attribute alien genetics to Claire's strength. Still, only when an ambulance finally drove her and a still-drowsy Claire back home that evening did Lois feel secure. She put Claire to bed on the couch and settled herself in a chair to sleep.

The sound of the front door opening in the middle of the night jolted her awake. Lois sat up, untangling herself from the blankets she'd wrapped herself in. "Clark?"

He appeared in the living room doorway, looking filthy and tired-but dressed in his standard dark plaid shirt and blue jeans. Lois jumped out of her seat and ran to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He folded her up against him.

"Are you okay?" she whispered.

"I will be."

She drew back and looked him in the eye, recognizing that dull, weary look he got whenever he came face-to-face with death or grief. He forced a sad smile for her, hoping to reassure her, and peered into the living room. "Where is she?"

"On the couch. Come see."

She drew him into the living room and turned on a lamp. To her surprise, the warm light revealed Claire in the process of sitting up. The girl looked up at them, frowning.

"How did I get home?" she mumbled.

Lois couldn't help smiling at that. "You don't remember coming back in the ambulance?"

"No." Claire rubbed her eyes with her good hand and looked at her father. Her eyes narrowed in sleepy caution. "Hi, Dad."

Clark slowly got down on his knees beside the couch. Claire's forehead creased. Lois looked on in growing anxiety; she could tell Clark was worried, trying to figure out how to penetrate Claire's standoffishness.

Then he reached up and took his glasses off, and immediately Claire's frown vanished. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek as impulsively as if she was a wee little girl again.

"That's _much_ better," Claire whispered. "I don't want you to hide from me anymore."

Clark smiled tiredly and hugged her. "No more hiding. I promise."

* * *

There would be no school for a whole week. Too many students were either still in the hospital or nursing injuries at home, like Claire. Adrienne Leonard, it was said, had a badly broken leg and would be on crutches for a while.

Miss Thompson came by to visit. Claire was nervous at first that she would want to talk about what Claire had done, how she'd saved their lives-but thankfully, Miss Thompson talked about anything and everything but the wreck. Kellie came to visit, too, and she was as discreet as their teacher. Even though they spent most of the afternoon watching television together, Claire sensed their friendship had gone to a new level. They'd survived a major tragedy together and were bound by it. It was a strangely rousing thought.

Ellen Lowry's funeral, however, sent Claire's spirits sinking again. When she got home, she cried her eyes out. Not even Mom could comfort her. Dad finally sat down next to Claire and rubbed her back gently.

"I'm thinking it may be high time to whisk you out of Metropolis for a while," he said. He looked up over her head at Mom. "Smallville for the weekend?"

Claire hiccuped in surprise and relief. "Oh please-_please!_ I want to go. Mom, can you get Saturday off?"

"I reckon I can," Mom said, smiling. "I'll twist Perry's arm and then I'll call Martha."

Bless Mr. White, he gave Mom the day off-and bless Grandma, she was more than happy to have them for the weekend. So on Friday evening, a full week after the wreck, they boarded a plane and arrived at the farm close to midnight.

Claire woke to a beautiful sunny morning. The window was open, letting in the warm spring breeze and the sounds of the waking farm. Struggling with her immobile hand, she dressed and found Mom and Grandma putting together a simple meal in the kitchen.

"Hey, sleepy-head," Grandma said, flipping a fried egg. "I was wondering if you'd ever wake up. It's nearly eight o'clock."

Claire slid into a chair at the table. "Where's Dad?"

"He's around here somewhere," Mom said. "He said he had something fun planned for you."

"For me?" Claire asked in surprise, taking the cup of creamy milk Grandma handed to her.

"Mm-hmm," Mom said, clearly unwilling to say anything more. She handed Claire a plate holding a filled plate. "Eat up and don't dilly-dally."

Bewildered but excited, Claire obeyed. She was wiping up the last of the runny yolk with her toast when she heard the guest bedroom door open and Dad's long footstep.

She sucked in her breath when he appeared. Everything suddenly looked dull and flat, as if all the color had been drained out the kitchen and infused into the otherworldly suit and cape and into his skin and eyes and hair. Claire and Grandma stared at him in awe. Mom just smiled.

"I'm glad you don't spend all your time in that thing," Grandma finally said, "because otherwise I wouldn't know whether or not to take you seriously."

"Is this my surprise?" Claire cried.

"Part of it, I suppose," Dad said. He leaned his arms against the table and looked intently at her. "Actually, I thought it was time for you and I to spend some quality time together. How would you like to spend the day in Yellowstone National Park?"

Claire frowned. "Yellowstone? That's miles and miles from here."

"So?" Dad challenged.

Claire's mouth almost fell open. "You-you mean-"

"Of course I mean. Why do you think I'm dressed like this?"

"You can carry me all that way?"

Dad cocked his head to one side with a look of mock disappointment. "Are you _really _asking me that, Claire Kent?"

"Of course he can carry you," Mom laughed. "Listen, finish your milk and then grab your sweater. It'll be chilly up high. _I _ought to know."

* * *

It was the first time she'd been face to face with Superman without danger being involved. Last week she had been so frightened and hurt, the sight of her father in this suit had only inspired fear and shock. Now, as she slung the pouch that held a small picnic lunch over her shoulder, Claire looked up at him with a mix of pride and awe.

"We'll be home before five," Dad said to Mom as the three of them walked, hand-in-hand, to the field behind the farmhouse. "We won't miss helping with the chores, I promise."

"Sounds good to me," Mom said, smiling down at Claire. "Have a nice time, sweetheart."

"Thanks," Claire said, giving her mother a quick hug.

"Here we go," Dad said, scooping Claire up in his arms. "Better step back, Lois."

"Yes, yes, I know," Mom said, taking several steps backwards and waving to Claire. Claire waved back, but before she could call out to her mother her breath was knocked out of her lungs by the sudden, fast ascent.

"Oh!" Claire cried, frightened. She glanced down. The farmhouse looked very tiny and Mom was just a speck in a sea of green prairie. She tightened her grip around Dad's neck.

"Don't drop me!"

Dad laughed over the rushing air and tightened his grip. "Don't worry. I'll never drop you."

The flight changed; they were no longer going up, but forward. Dad's position also shifted. He held Claire close, propelling himself forward in a horizontal position. The roar of the wind nearly deafened her and her heart raced, but after a while she found herself getting used to it and relaxing in her father's arms.

"Doing all right?" Dad asked.

"Yes! How did you learn to do this?"

Dad grinned. "It was a case of trial and error. I decided to test myself, see if it was possible, so I willed myself to do it. I crashed the first time."

"Oh no! Did you get hurt?"

"I _can't_ get hurt, sweetie. The only one who got hurt was the mountain."

Her wonder only increased when they descended-slowly, so gently that Claire hardly noticed when her father's foot touched the ground. They were on a riverbank, sandy and sun-warmed, with a clear river thundering past and trees and mountains all around. Dad set Claire down on her feet. Her legs felt a little shaky, but she walked around a bit and regained her balance.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered, rubbing her right arm and gazing around. "I've always wanted to come here . . ."

"I know, that's why I thought it was high time you visited," Dad said. "Besides, I wanted to spend some time with you alone. So we could talk."

Claire frowned, guessing what he meant. "I thought we _did_ talk."

"We talked some, but not enough."

"Oh."

He took her hand and led her further down the riverbank at a leisurely pace. "There's nobody in this world like you and me, Claire. Of course, there are other 'superheroes.' _They_ do exist . . . "

"Who are they?" Claire demanded, excited.

Dad smiled. "You know Mr. Wayne?"

"Yes . . ."

"He's Batman."

Claire almost tripped over her own feet in shock.

"There are others," Dad went on. "I've worked with them. We just try to do what we can to defend the weak and the helpless in the world, that's all. We're not gods. We're not all-powerful and because of that we can't solve every catastrophe. We simply do our best and thank God if we can give back some good to the world."

Claire was silent, processing this.

"But I'm the only one who's not from this world," Dad said quietly. "And you are the only person in the world who's half-human."

"What does that mean?" Claire asked, apprehensive. "For me, I mean? How do I play into all of that?"

Dad stopped, looked down at her with unsettling intensity. Claire felt uneasy. He seemed to be scanning her, evaluating her. She was suddenly afraid that the evaluation would find her wanting.

"Well, if you _can _fly, you won't be able to go into space," Dad said, more to himself than to her.

Claire was puzzled. "Why not?"

"There's no air in space. You have to take a huge breath before you get up there and hold it until you get back down again. Your lungs aren't strong enough to hold your breath that long."

She gaped at him. "How do you know?"

"I can see them."

Claire clapped her hands over her chest with a gasp. Dad put his hands on her shoulders and bent down quickly to her eye-level.

"It's okay. Look, can you see mine?"

Claire shook her head fiercely. "I'm scared to try!"

"Claire, _try_," Dad begged. "I need to know what you can do."

She hesitated, breathing hard with fright. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and strained her vision for one long, terrible moment. Then she gasped again and covered her eyes with her hand.

"Did you see?" Dad asked, his voice gentle.

Claire nodded hard without uncovering her face.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't like it!" Claire cried. "It's so . . . so . . ."

"Gross?" Dad offered with a sardonic smile. "I know. I hated it when I was younger, too. But it comes in handy sometimes. When your mom was shot, I used it to figure out she was bleeding internally. And when she was pregnant I used it to check on you."

Claire uncovered her eyes slowly. "Really?"

"We didn't know what the doctors might find, so I made sure beforehand that you looked . . . normal." Dad rubbed her shoulders comfortingly. "I watched you plenty of times after that simply because I wanted to see you growing. You had a strong heart for a creature so tiny. It's still stronger than most, which is why I think that if you can't fly, you could at least be a pretty mean gymnast."

"You mean I might be able to run and jump better than most people?"

"Exactly." He stood up again, glanced around, pointed at a gnarled tree several hundred feet down the river. "Run there and back again, as fast as you can. Test your limits, Claire. It's the only way you'll know how strong you are."

Claire took off the picnic pouch still slung over her shoulders. Suddenly she felt no fear, no trepidation about herself. She clenched her good hand, held her cast against her chest, and ran.

At first she felt no different than she normally did when she ran. But then she felt a lightness, a blocking-out of the pounding of her legs and feet against the sandy bank. Her lungs sucked in the fresh, clear air. She reached the tree, slapped her hand against it as if it were the goal of a relay race, and turned around.

"Well?" she asked, stopping in front of him. She wasn't even out of breath.

"You're very fast," Dad said. He glanced up at a nearby tree. "Reach for that branch."

Claire looked up, then back at him, skeptical. "It's ten feet high, probably. I can't reach that!"

"_Try_."

Claire bit her lip. She walked underneath the branch, evaluated it and the distance between it and her head. She jumped a paltry few inches off the ground.

"I can't," she said, shaking her head.

"Don't tell yourself you can't," he said firmly. "Try again."

If that had come from anyone else, Claire would've probably been ruffled. But this was her father and he was a great lord from another world and you just didn't disobey him. Again she squatted, drew a breath, and jumped as high as she could, willing herself to reach the branch.

Her head hit it with such force, she flopped flat on her back in the sand with a grunt. Bits of bark sprinkled down on her. Dad covered his eyes with one hand and Claire realized his shoulders were shaking from laughter.

"Don't laugh!" she cried, trying to keep a straight face herself.

"I'm-I'm sorry," he gasped. When he pulled back his hand she saw that his eyes sparked with delight. "Try again."

Claire rubbed the top of her head, bent low again, and jumped. This time her fingers clung to the branch. Her heart pounding, she slung her other arm over, careful of her hand, and pulled herself up. In a moment she had straddled the branch. She looked down and waved at her father.

"Now what?" she called.

"Now jump," he called.

"Jump where?"

"To the ground."

"And break my foot this time? No thanks," Claire laughed.

Dad raised an eyebrow. "This from the girl who just told me she couldn't leap eight feet. I don't think you'll break your foot. Come on. I'll catch you if I see you're not going to land well."

Claire sighed. She carefully swung both legs over the branch, but she didn't jump right away. She had butterflies in her stomach.

"Dad? Where you came from, were the people super-strong?"

Dad shook his head. "No, they were like normal people-to a certain extent, anyway."

"So how did you get to be . . ." Claire gestured with her hand at him. "You know."

He put his hands on his hips. "Are you stalling?"

"Kinda," Claire admitted with an embarrassed giggle.

Dad smiled, sighed patiently. "I got to be this way because I adapted to Earth's atmosphere. Our sun is younger and gives off more energy that the one in that other world. Apparently I absorb that energy."

"Do I absorb it, then?"

"To a lesser extent, yes. You're part-Kryptonian, after all."

_Part-Kryptonian, part-human . . . a blending of two worlds._ The thought sent shivers of excitement down her spine and suddenly made her feel very brave. Claire drew a deep breath and gave her head a quick, determined nod.

"I'm ready to jump."

"All right." Dad positioned himself below her, holding his hands out. "Go."

"Hold your arms out further!" Claire cried.

Dad obliged her. She closed her eyes, held her arms far out, and pushed herself off the branch.

Her eyes still closed, she felt her feet hit the ground. But rather than stand still there, her body catapulted again as if she'd hit a trampoline. Claire's eyes flew open. She was in the air, arms and legs flailing.

"Get ready!" she heard Dad shout.

Claire clenched her teeth, focused, and thrust one leg forward. Her foot sent sand flying and she pushed herself off again, gaining enough momentum to jump clear across the river and back again. She screamed with delight.

_Now fly! _she thought.

But no matter how much she willed herself to go sailing, she kept falling back to Earth. She thrust herself off the side of a grey-faced boulder, made deep craters in the sand, reached the top of a slender pine . . . but she could not fly. Finally, she dropped in the sand at her father's feet and lay, gasping and exhausted, in the sunlight.

Dad knelt beside her. "That was amazing."

"I can't-I can't fly," she gasped.

"No, but you can certainly fall with style," he said, laughing. He helped her stand up. "That was one of the best things I've ever seen in my life."

Claire brushed off her clothes, covered now in sand and mud, and squinted up at him. "But you want me to keep this a secret, don't you? No one can ever know who you are . . . or what I am. So what do I _do_ with myself?"

"You wait until the time is right for you to use your gifts."

"But _when_ will I know the time is right?" Claire asked impatiently.

Dad thought a moment while they walked down the bank again. "You have a real advantage over me. I didn't know what I was supposed to do with myself until I was grown. You, at least, know where you came from and what you can do, and I promise, there'll come a day when you'll be called to use your power. Like last week, during the wreck."

Claire shuddered.

"But listen to me . . . don't ever, ever use it for evil," Dad said firmly. "We're called to defend and protect, and to kill only when we have no other option."

Claire looked up. "You killed someone-once-didn't you?"

Dad fixed his eyes straight ahead. "Only because there was no other way to save his victims. I didn't want to do it, but there was nothing else for me to do. Does that make sense?"

Claire nodded. "Have you ever had to do it again?"

Dad lowered his eyes. "No. And I hope I never have to."

Her heart went out to him. She stared at the sandy ground at their feet and imagined her father wrestling the enraged alien general. She remembered something she'd heard Kellie say just this past September, when the whole city quivered with reminiscences just as it did every September.

"My mother says the general had a death wish," Kellie had whispered. "He knew he had lost so he decided he'd do as much damage as he could before Superman killed him."

Claire swallowed. Her father was strong-stronger than anyone on this planet-but he kept that power under control. He never abused it, even though the truth was that he could snap his fingers and have the whole world under his control, just as General Zod had hoped to do.

Her father could be a great and terrible lord if he wanted to be. But he _didn't_.

Claire reached up and slipped her small hand into his much larger one. He glanced down at her and she forced a smile, hoping she was able to convey through the act how grateful she was. He looked at her a moment, and then Claire felt his fingers close over hers in a warm, understanding clasp.

**So now that Claire is fully aware of her origins and strengths, the question is, how will she be called upon to use them while still guarding her family's secret? The plot thickens...stay tuned ;) **


	11. Suspicion

**In response to the last review (which for some reason I can't reply to via PM, sorry!), YES, I've considered writing a prequel! If I can successfully finish TGotW ****_and _****juggle my regular writing (which must take priority), a Lois/Clark prequel may very well be my next fanfic project. Thanks for the encouragement to consider/pursue the idea :)**

* * *

Mayor Leonard was in a puzzle. He'd just been to see his daughter in her bedroom. A month ago the place would've been wildly chaotic, with her clothes strewn about on the floor and her music blaring from the stereo system he'd given her for Christmas last year.

Now it was kept neat simply because Adrienne had no energy to trash her room. It had been three weeks since the wreck and she was still moving around on crutches. She seemed depressed, withdrawn. She refused to talk about what she'd gone through on Moore Island. In spite of increasing anxiety at work, he was very concerned about his daughter.

He found her getting ready for her first day back to school-a difficult thing to do, considering her handicap. She looked up with a start and hobbled back to her bed, slipping her books into her backpack. Her teacher, a certain Miss Thompson, had been bringing her homework to her.

"Hello, Daddy," she said. "I'm sorry-I've got to hurry-the bus will be here in ten minutes."

"I understand," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "But now that you're getting back into a normal routine, you might feel better if you let yourself unwind when you get home today. You deserve it, after all the attention you've given your homework."

Adrienne, her usually-styled hair drawn back in a limp ponytail, lowered her eyes. "I know . . . but I couldn't possibly do anything fun again after . . ."

Her voice trailed off and she seemed to stare into the distance at invisible, horrifying things that Leonard could only imagine. He reached over and took her hand.

"You'll feel better as time goes on. Let it go. No use punishing yourself for something that wasn't your fault at all."

Adrienne's eyes shot up. "Dad, you don't understand."

"Yes, I do-"

"No you don't!" Adrienne exploded. Her eyes flashed with frustration and her voice became a hiss between gritted teeth. "The girl who sat in front of me-Ellen-I saw her, _crushed_. She was dead by the time the train stopped its rolling back and forth and it was _awful_."

Leonard swallowed. This was the first time that she'd talked so openly about the wreck. Best to let her talk. He didn't want her locked down forever.

"I thought _I _was going to die," Adrienne moaned, covering her eyes with her hand. "I couldn't get out of my seat. And then I looked back and saw Claire Kent busting a hole through the train ceiling. She was just ramming her fist through it-bang, bang, bang."

"Claire Kent, Lois Lane's daughter?" Leonard asked sharply.

Adrienne nodded. "I couldn't see it all-it was hard to look over my shoulder when I could barely move the rest of me-but she got a hole opened, big enough for people to start crawling through."

"You must've been dreaming. Nobody could ram their fist through galvanized metal."

"Claire Kent did," Adrienne said with a certain awed respect he'd never heard her use before, certainly never where the disliked Kent girl was concerned. "Everybody was leaving without me. And then Claire, of all people-after I'd been so nasty to her earlier that day!-she came back for _me_. Her hand was broken and bleeding and she looked like she was in terrible pain, but she _made _me come with her. And then . . ."

Again her voice trailed off, but now she looked half-fearfully at him. Leonard met her gaze. "Go on."

"Well," Adrienne murmured, licking her dry lips, "Superman came."

Leonard stiffened. Adrienne grabbed his hand. "He's not _bad_, Daddy. I hardly remember anything else after that, but he picked me up and carried me away. He was gentle. He didn't seem at all . . . _threatening._"

"Where was Claire?" Leonard asked.

"I think he made her run out ahead of us. I passed out after that." Adrienne sighed, relieved to have that part of the tale over. "Now I feel bad about everything I ever did to Claire Kent or said about Superman."

Leonard drew his hand away from hers. "Just remember, he's not of this world and never will be-and as for Claire Kent, I don't want you becoming bosom friends with her. Her mother is a muckraker."

"I don't think Claire Kent _wants_ to be friends with me," Adrienne said mournfully. "And now that I say that, I'm really kind of sorry about it."

"Well, it's probably no great loss," Leonard said stiffly. "I have to get to my office. Think about what I said, Adrienne. Find something to do or think about other than the wreck. It'll do you good."

With that, he left her, a little guilty he had to be so stern and yet feeling it had been necessary.

* * *

The atmosphere at his office had grown stifling. Other reporters were always calling, asking for an unequivocal statement about his Christmas with Paul DiMaggio. In defiance of aides and advisors, Leonard stoutly refused to say much except that he and DiMaggio had been business associates for years. They had both given considerable help in the rebuilding of Metropolis after Superman and his countrymen all but destroyed it-so why shouldn't they stay in touch?

It was nerve-wracking. Leonard knew DiMaggio was antsy, too. Certain panicky notes brought to him by DiMaggio's go-betweens testified to that. And now there were rumors that federal investigators might be on their way. Leonard found himself shredding certain documents or taking them home with him for safekeeping, especially those regarding a certain garage in the Inner City and the secrets hidden within it . . .

Nevertheless, Leonard's mind was drifting far from that problem this morning. His mind was on his child's despondency, Lois Lane's daughter, and Superman.

He'd had an idea about that girl's paternity ever since Lois Lane's mother introduced the Kent family to him last Thanksgiving. There was just something about young Claire-an intelligence startling for her age-that made him wonder. She was certainly nothing like the uninteresting man who claimed to be her father. Lois' mother said _he_ was a total bore and an idiot, and that it was a wonder Perry White had ever employed him.

Unless . . .

Leonard almost jumped out of his seat. As a boy he'd been forced to read some melodramatic Edwardian tale about a disguised hero . . . set during the French or Prussian Revolution, he couldn't remember. He hadn't liked it much but he remembered it now. Quickly, he called up his secretary.

"Amelia, send for my car. I'm going to pay a visit to the _Daily Planet _office."

It was satisfying-and amusing-to walk into the front lobby and get everyone's reaction. One lady stopped in her tracks so fast, she spilled coffee all over herself. Another man clapped a hand to his mouth; as Leonard passed him, he heard the man whisper, "Lois is gonna get it."

_Not quite, I'll deal with her later_, Leonard thought. He walked over to the front desk and addressed the stunned receptionist.

"I'd like to speak to one of your emergency correspondents-a Mr. Clark Kent-and I'd like to speak to him privately."

"Uh, yes sir," the poor woman stammered, and picked up a telephone. Leonard decided to enjoy himself and leaned his tall, spare form against the desk as if he had all the time in the world.

"Mayor?"

He turned around and saw Clark Kent-a tall, somewhat slouched man with an absent-minded look about him-approach, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other fiddling awkwardly with his belt loop.

_A good-looking fellow who looks like he'd be more at home in a library_, Leonard mused. _And duller than he was last November-unless that dullness is a ruse._

Clark Kent held out a hand. "Good morning. I understand you want to talk to me in private?"

"Yes . . . right over there would be fine." Leonard gestured to one corner of the front lobby where a few tables were set up around a coffee machine. Kent shrugged his agreement and followed him at a slow, easy pace. They sat down across from each other, Leonard trying to hide the fact that he was evaluating every inch of the man.

"I came to talk to you about-"

"My wife's article," Clark Kent finished quietly.

Leonard shook his head. "No, no . . . this is more of a personal call. No politics."

"Oh," Kent said indifferently, running his fingertip over the plastic table top.

"I came to talk to you about your daughter," Leonard said.

Kent's dreamy blue eyes lifted, peering through thick glasses "My daughter?"

"Yes," Leonard said slowly. "Your daughter and mine were in last week's train wreck together -in fact, they were in the same car. Surely Claire has mentioned my Adrienne to you before?"

Kent rubbed his chin and frowned, concentrating. "Um, let's see . . . oh wait-something about that Robin Hood play and a bucket of yellow paint-"

Leonard found himself squirming. "Well, children _will_ have their quarrels."

"I don't know, sometimes adults are just as bad. Say, do you want coffee?"

Leonard, feeling a little thrown off balance, said he did. Kent rose, and while he spent an inordinate amount of time at the coffee machine, Leonard surreptiously glanced over his shoulder at him. _Maybe, just maybe . . . _

"Never had coffee with a politician before," Clark Kent said cheerfully, handing Leonard a styrofoam cup. "It'll be something to brag about to my wife tonight."

Ignoring the mention of Lois Lane, Leonard reached for a plastic container of white sugar on the table. It was nearly empty, so he scraped the last bit of sugar into his cup. "About your daughter-"

As he sat down Kent's knee hit the table, jostling it, and Leonard's coffee sloshed down his white sleeve. He yelped.

"So sorry!" Kent said, handing him a napkin. "I've never grown out of the awkward stage-no place to put these arms and legs."

"Your daughter Claire," Leonard tried again, his voice losing its usual smoothness. "Adrienne says she went back to help, actually got Adrienne halfway out of the car before your friend Superman finished the job."

Kent gave a short laugh. "He's not my friend-he's my wife's-and now my daughter's. Guess I'll get my chance someday . . . "

"Claire did more than just help her," Leonard went on in a lowered voice. "She says Claire actually punched a hole in the train's ceiling wide enough to let people climb out."

Clark Kent lifted one eyebrow with an incredulous grin. "What do you think she is, Kryptonian or something?"

Leonard choked on his coffee. Kent frowned at him.

"Wait, you don't really think I'm serious, do you?"

"Well, I-"

"Are you saying you think my wife made a cuckold of me?"

"I-I mean-no!" Leonard stammered. He couldn't believe he was getting this befuddled-but then he hadn't expected Kent to get _that_ close to the idea, either. "I'm sorry-I merely choked, it meant nothing to the conversation."

"Hmm," Kent muttered, as if he wasn't at all convinced. He sat back, fiddling with the _Daily Planet _tag around his neck. "Claire _did_ punch through the ceiling. That's true. But you know she also broke her hand."

"Did she?" Leonard asked lamely.

"You should see the x-ray-you'd think someone did her hand over with a sledgehammer. I suppose anyone with an adrenaline rush can do some amazing things, but they'll pay the price one way or another."

Leonard gulped his coffee. It burned his throat but it was the only diversion he could think of. He set the cup, almost empty now, on the table and looked Clark Kent in the eye. "Adrienne has felt . . . very much in Claire's debt. I want you to thank her on behalf of my daughter. "

"I'll do that."

"And now, about your wife's article."

Kent frowned. "I thought this was personal, not politics."

"I changed my mind," Leonard snapped, impatient now to get this over and with the upper hand. "I still want her to retract that article. I know she wants to discredit my administration. She's had an axe to grind ever since I made my first negative comment about Superman."

He glanced warily at Kent, but the younger man didn't even blink. Leonard scowled, lowered his voice. "Your wife will keep out of my personal affairs if she knows what's good for her."

"Is that a threat?" Kent asked quietly.

_You'd better believe it_, Leonard thought, but out loud he said, "No, just a friendly warning. I'll get a little more of this coffee before I go, if you don't mind."

"Go right ahead."

Leonard got up and went to the coffee machine. Clark watched him with narrowed eyes, his mind working fast, processing everything Leonard had said-or left unsaid.

For the mayor to have spent so much mental energy on Claire was disconcerting enough. The veiled threat against Lois, however, not only increased his concern; it also made him angry. Everything in him wanted to jump up and grab Leonard by the collar and shake him.

He couldn't do that, of course.

Moving swiftly, Clark grabbed the sugar container off the table next to his, swapping it with the empty one already on his table. He unscrewed the top of a salt shaker and poured its contents into the empty container, then set both on the opposite table before Leonard came back and reached for the sugar.

"Here," Clark said, knowing he looked and sounded completely innocent, "that one's empty-use this one."

Leonard sullenly spooned salt into his coffee and instead extended his hand to Clark. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kent."

"Same to you," Clark lied.

Then Leonard turned to go. Clark stood up and watched the mayor walk all the way out of the building and to his car, parked in front. Leonard lifted his cup to his lips and promptly spewed coffee all over the sidewalk.

Clark brought his hand to his mouth to hide a smile. It was a petty satisfaction, he knew, and he still felt uneasy about what Leonard knew-but at least he'd knocked the man down a couple of notches.

* * *

Claire and her Scouts ate lunch in the schoolyard, shunning the cafeteria in favor of the warm, sunny outdoors. Tasha was explaining to them a new game she'd learned at her cousins' house over the weekend when Claire noticed Adrienne Leonard sitting by herself at one of the other picnic tables.

Adrienne's first day back at school had been awkward for everybody. Awkward for Adrienne because she was still struggling with her bulky cast and crutches-awkward for the rest of the girls because they hardly recognized her. Adrienne was pale and had lost weight, and her usual flashy attire was gone. She hardly said a word to anyone _and_ she sat in the back.

Claire nudged Kellie. "Poor Adrienne."

Kellie nodded discreetly. "I know. She's had all the wind knocked out of her sails."

"She looks sad," Claire whispered. "And lonesome."

"Of course she's lonesome," Kellie said, unusually callous. "It's her own fault, being so nasty to everyone for so long."

Claire frowned. She tried to finish her sandwich but it tasted dry and stale to her so long as she knew Adrienne Leonard sat there looking so blue and dejected. Tasha was still talking, explaining long, convoluted game rules to the other girls. Claire stood up, taking her lunchbox with her, and approached Adrienne.

"Hey there," she said.

Adrienne looked up, shading her eyes beneath her hand. Surprise filled her face. "Oh, hi."

"Mind if I sit down?"

Adrienne sized her up a moment, then moved her crutches to her other side. Claire released a breath and sat on the bench, swinging her legs over the edge. She reached into her lunchbox and pulled out a small, brown paper bag.

"Want a cookie? I've got two."

Adrienne's tired eyes lit up a little and she reached in, pulled out a soft brown snickerdoodle. She took a tiny bite. "Mmm. That's good."

"Thanks. I made them yesterday." It was true; Claire and Mom made a huge batch on Sunday afternoon, but Claire wasn't about to mention her mother. She was making too much headway to risk it. "It's good to see you back at school. Are you feeling any better?"

Adrienne shrugged. "I don't know. Using these crutches wears me out."

"Bet you'll have a lot of upper body strength by the time you get rid of them."

"Maybe. How's your hand?"

Claire held up her hand, now enclosed in a tight, stiff brace. "The doctor said it was healing unusually fast. Hopefully I'll be able to stop wearing this in another month or so."

Adrienne looked down at her cookie, running her fingers down its sugary ridges. "Claire, I . . . I've done a lot of thinking while I've been at home. About the wreck and you and . . . and . . ."

Claire glanced nervously around. _Don't mention it, Adrienne, please don't mention it . . . _

"You didn't have to come back for me," Adrienne said.

Claire was startled. "Of course I did! What was I going to do, leave you there all by yourself? You would've died!"

"And I would've deserved it," Adrienne whispered. "I've been a horrid, selfish, unforgivable brat all my life, and I was so mean to you that very morning. Sure, I was mad at your mom but that didn't mean I had to take it out on you."

Claire said nothing. It was a little unnerving now to think about what Adrienne had said about Mom and Dad. Adrienne went on in painful little bursts of words.

"And you came back for me-and then _he_ came-and that was the worst because I-I only ever thought he was what my dad always said he was-and he _wasn't_-and oh, Claire-I felt so horrid!" She looked at Claire with tears in her eyes. "I'm so, so sorry."

Claire swallowed and took a big, unladylike bite out of her own cookie to hide a sudden burst of feeling. So after all this long time of friction and rivalry, Adrienne Leonard was apologizing-and in tears, no less. Part of Claire refused to believe it and even wanted to hold onto her long-time anger against Adrienne. But another part of her-the stronger part-felt sorry for the girl, and wanted to comfort her. She reached out and slowly clasped her fingers over Adrienne's.

"I forgive you," she heard herself say very, very quietly.

Adrienne's face lit up. "For real?"

"For real," Claire said. She took a deep breath and smiled. "So, can we be friends now?"

Adrienne's face fell. "I want to, but . . . I don't think my dad would be happy about that."

"Why?"

"Because he's still awfully mad at your mom. He called her a 'muckraker' just this morning."

Claire popped the last bit of cookie in her mouth and rubbed her hands together. "Well, if the adults want to fight, let them fight-but unless they tell us we can't ever, _ever_ speak to each other, I say we kids ought to go right on being friendly."

"Nobody's ever talked to me like that before," Adrienne said with the look of a girl who's carried her father's reputation-and her own-for a long and wearying time. "I appreciate it."

"That's okay. Need some help?"

Adrienne hesitated, her long-ingrained vanity rising up-but then she squelched it and nodded. Claire helped her to her feet and walked slowly beside her across the schoolyard. The other girls watched and looked at each other in surprise, but if Claire Kent was on good terms with Adrienne Leonard, it must be all right. Within minutes Adrienne was the recepient of warm, quiet greetings and questions, and when the school bell rang again, they walked beside her so she wouldn't be left behind.

* * *

That night, long after Adrienne and Claire had gone to bed in their respective homes, a flashlight shone brightly into the darkness of an inner city street. It blinked three times. Across the street, another light replied in the same signal. A tall, spare figure crossed the street and met a short and dumpy form on the other side.

"You're late," said Tall and Spare.

"You're insane!" hissed Short and Dumpy. "Arranging this meeting with the FBI practically breathing down my neck! Ever since that lady-journalist brought up that story about the holidays I've had no rest."

"Have you and your men covered up our tracks?"

"Of course, I'm the master of covering up tracks. But you're all but putting your head on the block, coming out here like this. You're sure you weren't followed?"

"I'm sure. But I'd think any snoops would be ferreted out by _your_ spies anyway."

"They would be"-and in the darkness, the short man drew one finger across his throat. "Still, we don't need to deal with that problem. What's so important to draw you out here at this hour?"

"A slight change of plan. It's too risky to wait much longer. If Metropolis is thrown into a crisis now, any investigation will be called off. Especially if my office is one of the damaged buildings."

"True . . ."

"But before we can do that, we have to take _him _out."

The short man frowned, skeptical. "Is the serum finished?"

"Yes, I just got word tonight." The tall man-Leonard, of course-crossed his arms over his chest. "Those who control Metropolis control the state, and those who control the state-and its wealth-will have long-reaching influence in this country, maybe even internationally. We won't be able to accomplish that if we're in jail, or if we have the likes of Superman and a gaggle of nosy reporters watching our every move."

The short man-Paul DiMaggio-scratched the back of his head. "Very well. When do you want me to do the dirty work?"

"Thursday would do. That'll give us two whole days to prepare. By the end of the week our problems should be very conveniently erased, Paul, and we can continue taking control of this city piece by piece."

The two men shook hands and Leonard withdrew, back to where his car was parked in a dark, damp alleyway. His chauffeur, nervous about being in such a bad part of town, was relieved to be driving away again. Leonard sat in the back and tried to calm the butterflies in his stomach.

A full year of conspiring, of covering his tracks, of developing a weapon with his long-time research on the wrecked alien ships-now it was all coming to fruition. Lois Lane and federal agents thought they were so smart, too, so cunning . . . and Superman thought he was so invincible.

Well, fifteen years of alien knights running this city and of certain people thinking that _his_ office was subject to the law were about to come to an end. Metropolis would have to endure a small crisis and William Leonard, not Superman, would become the most powerful man in the state in the process.


	12. The Enemy Strikes

**Hey, everybody! Thanks as always for the positive reviews; if you could see my face whenever I get a new one you'd think I'd just won a million bucks. On a slightly more depressing note: what do y'all think of Batman vs. Superman being delayed until May 2016? Kind of a bummer, isn't it? Guess I'll have to comfort myself with writing fanfiction, watching _Man of Steel_, and reading the movie novelization all over again ;)**

* * *

Lois walked into the bedroom and stopped short at the sight of Clark pulling on the skin-tight suit.

"What are you doing? It's almost eleven o'clock!" she whispered, hoping Claire was asleep and not eavesdropping on the other side of the wall.

"Doesn't matter," he said sternly. She was surprised; Superman mode was on full-throttle. "Something's nagging me to go and check on that garage or laboratory or whatever it is."

"I thought all was quiet on that front. You told me just last week it was deserted."

"I thought so too, but . . . help me with the cape, will you?"

He bent his knees so she could fasten the soft red material to his shoulders without standing on tiptoe. Lois spoke only when she was finished.

"Are you sure this can't wait till the morning?"

He shook his head. "I can't shake a feeling that I need to check it out. If I come back and don't have anything to report, then you have 'I-told-you-so rights' for a week, all right?"

Lois smirked. "It's a deal."

A few hours later she was startled from a sound sleep. She opened one eye and saw Clark climbing through the bedroom window. She'd left it unlocked for him before she went to bed; now she propped herself up on one elbow and cleared her throat.

"What time is it?"

He approached the bed, unsurprised at her wakefulness; he'd probably heard her heart rate change or something. "Two o'clock in the morning. Go back to sleep."

"Not so fast, farm boy," she hissed, flipping on the lamp. "What did you find?"

He bent over her, but there was no teasing, no flirting, no good humor in his eyes. Every muscle in his face was taut. "Remember when I started suspecting they were developing a biological weapon? Well, I'm positive now. They're drawing up the serum."

"And?"

"And . . ." He hesitated, then blurted out, " . . . they're loading it into dozens of firearms."

"Firearms!"

"Yes, and there's a thug for every firearm."

"You need to call the police," Lois said, reaching for the phone. Clark grabbed her hand fast.

"The police are in Leonard's back pocket-and _he_ was there, Lois," he said sharply. "Calling the police won't do us any good."

Lois stared at him, horrified. "What's in the serum, Clark? "

She didn't really need him to tell her. She'd feared the worst ever since he first told her about the lab back in December. Now she knew, just by looking at him, that the worst was reality.

"I got close enough to hear Leonard telling his thugs all about it. It's a weapon against _me_, all thanks to his research on the Kryptonian ship's ruins." He withdrew his hand from hers and straightened his impressive frame. "Now that you know . . . I have to go back out there."

"No!" She grabbed his arm, bolted out of bed. "If you get hit, it might kill you! Wait, honey, stay here-think about it-wait until morning and then expose him as Clark Kent, as a good, old-fashioned reporter. Let him scramble into hiding the way he did when Perry published _my_ story. Please, Clark, don't walk into that trap."

"But what you're talking about may be _the_ trap," Clark said, stroking her hair back from her face. "What's Leonard going to think when Clark Kent of all people publishes a fantastic story like that?"

_He'll put two and two together_, Lois thought with sickening dread. _Leonard will know it was Clark-and Kal-El-who was spying on him. __And after after their conversation a few days ago at the office . . . Leonard know or suspects too much already._

Clark gently pried her fingers off his arm. "I'll be back, I promise. Take Claire to work with you. I want both of you together, just in case-"

"In case what?" Lois demanded. "If you get yourself killed, I'll never forgive you."

Clark smiled, knowing her all too well to think she meant that. "Yeah, sure. Just obey me this time, Lois. It would make me more comfortable if I knew you and Claire were together."

He returned to the window, Lois following. He opened the pane, kissed her, and with a quick glance down the street to make sure no one was in sight, disappeared into the night sky.

* * *

He landed in the dark alleyway, his booted foot hitting the pavement without a sound. The light in the garage was still on but the thugs armed with Kryptonite remained underground. Clark-Kal-El-Superman-pressed himself against a brick wall and waited, straining his ears and eyes for some sign of his enemies.

He could've turned the garage into kindling if he wanted, of course. Intentionally destroying private property, however, was an abhorrent idea, especially after the damage he'd inadvertently done to Metropolis fifteen years ago. No, he would catch the thugs the moment they set foot out of that garage, knock the living daylights out of them, and confiscate the dreaded serum.

It would be the only thing he'd destroy-if he could help it.

Hours passed, however, and nothing happened. The sun rose and Clark withdrew further into the alley's shadows, not wanting some unseen sentinel to catch sight of his colorful suit. He thought about Lois and Claire safe inside the _Daily Planet _office and wondered how Leonard had planned to spin the story of Superman's defeat if the sinister plan worked.

He wondered, too, if the serum was strong enough to kill him as Lois feared, or if it would simply weaken him and knock him unconscious, the way the air on Zod's ship had done.

It was nine o'clock. This was getting old. He strained his vision through the almost-impassive concrete and could tell that the men were still underground. They seemed to be waiting for something, though . . . a signal, maybe . . .

An explosion rocked the ground, startling him. Clark whirled. Sirens blared and another explosion rattled the windows in the surrounding buildings.

Clark gave the garage one final glance, then shot up into the sky. Immediately he caught sight of two ominous clouds of flame and black, billowing smoke. One came from the direction of the State Capitol, the other from the mayor's office, a mere ten minutes from the stately skyscraper that housed the _Daily Planet._

* * *

Claire, sitting in her mother's cubicle with her schoolbooks, jumped when the first explosion went off. Mom whirled in her swivel chair with a gasp.

"What was that?" she demanded in a loud, sharp voice.

"A bomb," Mr. Lombard answered, running past her cubicle. "I'm going into the street, Lane! You with me?"

Mom was on her feet. So was Claire. Mom stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder.

"You stay here," she ordered, waving a finger in Claire's face. "Don't you leave this building, understand?"

Claire nodded reluctantly. Mom snatched up her Nikon; in seconds Claire was watching her slender, nimble figure racing off after Mr. Lombard. Her own heart raced with fear. She let out a startled cry when the second explosion-much, much closer-sounded.

"Where's your mother?" Mr. White demanded, suddenly in her face.

"Gone into the street," Claire gasped.

Mr. White grunted approvingly. "You come in my office with me. We'll monitor the situation together, how's that?"

Claire was more that all right with that arrangement; she had no desire to sit there in Mom's cubicle while reporters and interns raced to the windows or down thirty stories to the sidewalk. As she sat down in the chair Mr. White offered to her, however, she felt sick, wondering if Dad had neutralized the threat to himself yet or if he was on his way to whatever disaster had just taken place.

* * *

Lois saw Kal-El streak above her and across the sky, a flash of red and blue heading east. She grabbed Lombard's arm and pointed as they ran in the direction from which most people werefleeing.

"Look!"

Lombard glanced up from the Twitter app on his iPhone and nodded. "Yeah, but there's only one of him, and there were two explosions." He looked at Twitter again. "Okay, the State Capitol's on fire . . . that must've been the explosion further up. The mayor's office was the second explosion."

"Leonard's office?" Lois whispered, puzzled.

Lombard looked at her, his grey eyes holding the spark of a reporter's daring courage. "You want to get closer?"

"If we can," Lois said, gripping her Nikon tighter. She grabbed her own iPhone and turned on the voice recorder. She would have a record of this one way or another . . . the first terrorist attack in Metropolis in years. Because what else could it be but a terrorist attack-and where was the mayor?

* * *

Superman saw Leonard's office, a modern-looking building made of glass, engulfed in flames, but he could see the huge domed Capitol, too. One of the two buildings held more innocent victims; the choice was painful, but he shot forward towards the Capitol.

The domed center of the building was already a burning ruin, reeking of smoke and scorched flesh. Emergency vehicles crowded as close to it as was safely possible. Stretchers bearing the wounded lay on the unharmed green, the victims waiting their turn for a ride to the hospital. Police roped off the area, preventing panicked citizens from coming close to look for loved ones.

Inside a smoke-filled, windowless committee room, a panicked group of men tried in vain to break open the door. It wouldn't budge; something on the other side-perhaps the whole hallway-had collapsed and was now blocking it. The doorknob was getting hot, a sure sign of worse danger on the other side.

A female secretary, her frightened face covered in grime and sweat, glanced up and knew the ceiling of this room was in danger, too. A moment more and they'd be buried alive.

Another explosion, less intense than the one that had rocked the building ten minutes before, made them all whirl in terror. A gasp-a choked gasp, no thanks to the thickening smoke-went up as the tall, broad figure of Superman appeared in a gaping hole in one wall.

His fierce blue eyes made one quick sweep of the room. Over the roar of flames that were already too close for comfort, the trembling secretary heard him speak to them in a firm, confident tone.

"Everybody through here-run!"

No one argued, not even those who, as part of Mayor Leonard's government, had voiced less than positive opinions of Superman over the past six months. They clambered through the ragged hole. The secretary, dizzy from lack of fresh air, stumbled over the rubble. Superman grabbed her elbow and helped her into the next room. There were windows here; the escapees gulped in air.

"You can't go into the hallway," Superman said in that same calm voice. "The fire's already reached it and the walls are collapsing."

There was a crash outside the room that made everyone jump-everyone but Superman. He

threw open one of the windows. "Climb out here and get as far away from the building as you can. Paramedics are on the green. I'm going to look for more survivors."

A short, rotund man with a white mustache stepped forward, grabbing his muscular arm. "Thank you. This city don't really deserve this, not after-"

"No time to hash over ancient history," Superman said. "There are more people to save."

He ran to the wall facing the burning hallway. Without hesitation, he slammed himself into the sheetrock and plunged headlong into the flames.

* * *

Inside the underground lab, Leonard followed the developments on his phone. Within seconds of the first bomb going off, he got his first call. He picked it up, heard the raspy voice of his contact within the Capitol building.

"Governor dead. Nearly half of the legislators are down. Enact Operation Wagner."

_Perfect_. Leonard hung up without a single word in response and promptly dialed the National Guard base on Moore Island.

"The Capitol has been bombed and reports are that the state government has been massacred. I'm putting Metropolis in Code Red. Activate your regiments!"

This was it. The crisis that would distract everything from his administration and give him the power he'd always wanted in this city . . .

Another phone call soothed his remaining anxiety. "Closing in on the bait, sir. Almost time to lure in the prey."

Leonard turned to the leader of the thug platoon he'd gathered here in the lab. "I've got to get back to my house and then to my own post in the city, but you stay on the lookout. He'll be here in a few hours. Remember, give him everything you've got!"

* * *

Lois was trying to get as close to the mayor's burning office as she could without incurring the wrath of the policemen who were trying to keep people at a safe distance. The wind blew hot, smoky air in her face and she coughed as she snapped pictures and asked questions of the officers and the spectators who still hung around, mesmerized as they were by the sight of first responders crowding around the building.

Lombard had moved to the other side of the crowd. When the policemen began shouting frantically for everyone to run, get out of the way, the building was in danger of collapsing, Lois made no effort to search for him. He was a grown man, he'd take care of himself. All she had to worry about was putting at least a whole block between herself and the compromised building.

Her Nikon thudded painfully against her stomach as she ran, glancing over her shoulder at the smoldering building. Someone-a police officer in what looked like a black, bulletproof uniform and helmet-grabbed her arm, dragging her further away in the panic.

When they turned a corner, Lois tried to pull her arm free and thank her companion. To her surprise-and consternation-he didn't let go. In fact, his grip tightened on her elbow.

"Hey, you can let go of me now," she shouted over the chaotic noise.

The officer said nothing-would not even look at her through his helmet visor. She suddenly realized he held in his free hand a heavy assault rifle, and he was a good head and shoulders taller than her. She jerked her head around to call for help. She swallowed her words when she saw two more men, similarly dressed and armed, approaching them.

This was not right.

"Let go of me," Lois snapped, trying to wrest her arm free. "I'm Lois Lane with the _Daily_-"

"Turn aside," the first officer snapped at her in a low voice; he gestured with his rifle at a nearby alleyway. "Turn aside and keep quiet, or this gun will make you wish you had."

Lois held her breath. The people around her were too busy trying to get to safety themselves; they seemed to take little notice of the suspicious-looking officers. For a second, she thought about breaking into a run.

But these men was armed-heavily. If she ran and they made good their threat-as she feared they were perfectly willing to do-they'd be firing into a crowd.

Gritting her teeth, she clutched her camera strap and swerved into the alleyway. One of the men grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and jerked her around to face him. Lois met his eyes and prepared for the worst.

* * *

Leonard showed up at the city's office of emergency preparedness in the early afternoon. For all everyone else knew, he'd been at home when the bombs went off, directing the emergency response from there. Everyone accepted his story. The plan was going off beautifully. The press conference in the underground bunker was going off even more flawlessly.

"Metropolis is under martial law until we apprehend the terrorists who made this unprovoked, malicious attack," he said, looking steadily into a crowd of journalists. "And in the event of the governor's death-and that of more than half his cabinet and our legislature-I've offered to fill the void until another election can be held."

A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd, only to grow louder at a commotion in the back of the room. Suddenly disturbed, Leonard peered forward, and felt his throat contract at the sight of a grime-covered Superman striding into the room, his fierce blue eyes flashing.

" 'Fill the void?' " the alien repeated in an unmistakably angry tone. "A rather convenient turn of events for you, isn't it, Mayor? Hours after you initiate a plan to take me out, Metropolis gets turned upside down and you're the only one left standing?"

Leonard quickly masked his shock lest the startled journalist pool see it. He delivered his own jab.

"It isn't _my _fault I'm one of few survivors, Superman. Perhaps more of my colleagues would be alive if _you _had apprehended the terrorists in the first place. After all, isn't that the job you've taken upon yourself without any encouragement from us?"

Superman jabbed an index finger at him. "You weren't at safe at home when those bombs went off. You were in an underground lab inspecting your thug army, getting them ready to attack _me_."

Another roar of shock and horror from the gathered journalists; Leonard saw Ms. Olsen and several others making hasty notes on their pads. Someone was filming the confrontation. Leonard dealt his cards-fast.

"Careful, Kal-El-or Superman-or whatever you call yourself," he snapped. "You're treading the thin ice of slander. Ask anyone at my home-my housekeeper, my daughter, or Colonel Nelson of the National Guard here, who met me at home hardly more than an hour ago. I have no earthly idea what you're talking about."

Superman stared at him with eyes so blazingly intense that Leonard found it difficult to meet them steadily. It was almost as if the alien could see straight through him. Maybe he could.

"Fine," Superman finally said in a dangerously low voice. "But I'll have you know, if you're taking over leadership of this city and this state, you're being watched. The people are watching you-and so is their defender."

He whirled, his cape snapping, and marched through the sea of reporters who parted in awed silence before him. Leonard ground his teeth and braced himself for the barrage of new questions he knew was about to come.

Questions he'd have to parry with all the well-practiced charisma that had won him the city in the first place years ago.


	13. Kidnapped

Claire saw her father confront the mayor on live television and held her breath in delight, only to be disappointed when Dad walked out. Mr. White, watching the TV over her shoulder, grumbled in his own dissatisfaction.

"Should've punched his lungs out. The city would've been better off for it." Mr. White looked at the clock on his desk and scowled. "Come on, Lois . . . where are you?"

"Maybe she got a lead for a story," Claire said hopefully. "Or maybe she got caught in a traffic block. How am _I_ ever gonna get home?"

"If your parents haven't come back by dark, I'll take you home myself," Mr. White said.

Claire bit her lip. She didn't think Dad would come back to the office, let alone the house, for a long time. He'd be too busy trying to put out the fire at the State Capitol. And Mom . . . she hadn't seen Mom in hours. Mr. Lombard had come back and shown real alarm that Mom hadn't returned. They'd called the police and even the hospital-but of course _they_ had their hands full already, and knew nothing of Lois Lane's whereabouts.

"I've tried to call her," she said, pulling her phone from her pocket, "but I can't get through."

"The cell towers are all jammed," Mr. White said worriedly. "Nobody's getting calls on their cell phones today, I'll bet."

By the time darkenss fell, neither Mom nor Dad had shown up. Claire tried not to act scared at all while Mr. White took her in his own car back to her home. It was a long drive, far longer than usual thanks to traffic detours and troops stopping them to ask where they were going. Mr. White had only to flash his _Daily Planet_ badge at them to convince them that he was all right.

"You think you'll be okay by yourself?" Mr. White asked as he stopped the car in front of the townhouse.

"Oh, yes sir," Claire said, sounding more confident than she felt. "Call the home phone if you hear from Mom, won't you?"

"Sure thing, kid. Take care."

He waited until Claire had fetched the extra key behind a potted bush and opened the front door. Then Claire turned and waved at him, and he drove away. She shut the door behind her, and deadbolted it.

There were messages on the answering machine from both her grandmothers. Grandma's was calm, but anxious. "Just heard the news but I can't get a hold of you on your cell phones. Call me back when you're at home to let me know you're all right."

Grandmother's, however, was borderline-obnoxious. "Lois, your cell phone won't work! Call me as soon as you get this message. I'm fine but trapped here in my flat, they won't let any of us outside. _Don't forget to call me!_"

Claire decided against calling her grandmothers back until she knew where her parents were. It wouldn't do her any good to call them and not be able to answer their worried questions. Besides, Grandma would see Superman on TV and know enough about Dad to have her concerns eased on his account.

By the time she finished a sandwich it was close to her bed time, and for once she didn't feel like sitting up past it. But she did curl up in her parents' bed, hugging Dad's pillow close to her, and drew the blankets over her head. She was sorry she'd ever complained about having to sleep with them on the rare occasions when they stayed overnight at Grandmother's penthouse. At least it was preferable to being home alone.

* * *

"Lois?"

Dad's voice startled Claire from a sound sleep. Before she could untangle herself from the blankets, he pulled them off of her himself. Claire blinked, rubbed her eyes. Dad stood over her in his blue suit and red cape, his face sooty and tired but slightly amused.

"What time is it?" Claire mumbled.

"Two o'clock in the morning," Dad said. He bent and kissed her forehead. "Are you all right, cupcake?"

"Yeah. Is Mom home?"

Dad frowned. "She's not here with you?"

Claire bolted upright. "I haven't seen her since right after the bomb went off. She went out with Mr. Lombard and never came back."

Dad's frown deepened. He grabbed the landline on the nightstand on Mom's side of the bed.

"I've called and called," Claire said. "She either won't answer, or the call won't go through."

"Well, it's ringing now," Dad said.

* * *

Paul DiMaggio, the mogul no one had ever trusted-certainly not in all the time Lois had been a journalist in Metropolis-looked like a dollop of mashed potatoes in this eery light. She watched him warily while the short, overweight man circled the chair to which she was bound, his arms over his chest and his small grey eyes staring back at her from a bald, shiny head.

You wouldn't think by looking at him, she thought, that such an unassuming character could be one of the most suspicious men in Metropolis. And yet most suspected him of dealings with the Mafia, even if they didn't always believe he was _part of_ the Mafia itself.

His techniques and demeanor had put Lois solidly in the "DiMaggio is in the Mafia" camp.

Her arms were falling asleep, stretched back as they were with her hands tightly bound with zip-ties. Her clothes were filthy from her struggle against her captors and most of her hair had straggled out of its ponytail. Her iPhone lay on a table nearby. The Nikon had long since been confiscated; Heaven knew what had happened to it.

"So," DiMaggio had said when her two captors shoved her into the chair, "I finally have the pleasure of meeting Miss Lois Lane of the _Daily Planet_. I've read your work, it's quite good."

Lois managed to whip up a little bravado. "You might as well cut to the chase, Mr. DiMaggio, and tell me why you've had me kidnapped. I hate small talk."

He smiled and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. "Believe it or not, Miss Lane, I'm a man under orders. You're a pretty woman and would probably give me some amusement, but I'm not to lay a finger on you. I'm instead to keep you here until our real prey stalks in here looking for you."

Lois narrowed her eyes, guessing his meaning. "I didn't know the Mafia is interested in picking a fight with Superman. If he finds out you have me here-" Lois looked around at the lab her husband had stalked for so many months "-he won't waste any time coming for me."

"How will he know you're here, though, unless someone tells him?"

The sudden ringing of her phone made Lois jump. DiMaggio snatched up the phone and peered at the screen.

" 'Annie Sarkowski.' Oh, of course-your mother." DiMaggio put the phone back on the table. "Let it ring. I've got orders, remember, Miss Lane . . . orders to wait until your husband calls, looking for you."

Lois' mouth went dry. Did he know? She played it safe. "Kent will be reporting the bombing, too. It'll be a _long_ time before he wanders back into the office and realizes I'm gone-and even longer to think Superman's interference necessary."

DiMaggio smiled. "Don't worry. We'll wait."

The hours dragged; the hoodlums Clark had spied on earlier drifted in and out from the garage above, leering at Lois before being chased away by DiMaggio. The phone rang several more times throughout the horrible day. DiMaggio held it up every time so Lois could see the caller ID.

_ Martha Claire._

Lois swallowed hard and turned her face away. DiMaggio let the phone ring, seeming to think with satisfaction that he was causing her pain in doing so. In reality, she was thankful. Better for Claire to remain oblivious.

In the middle of the night, however, the phone emitted a new ringtone-a pager-like beeping-and Lois jerked her head up out of a restless sleep. DiMaggio, playing Solitaire now at the table, snatched up the phone. A slow, ghoulish smile crept over his lips and he held the phone up to her sleepy eyes.

_Clark Kent._

"Now you listen to me and listen good," DiMaggio said, rising to his feet and pulling a tiny pistol from his pants pocket. "Tell him where you are. Tell him that if Superman doesn't come to bargain with us, you'll be dead in-" he glanced at his watch "-four hours. Your kid will be our next target, too, if he doesn't hurry."

Lois said nothing, her mind reeling. DiMaggio scrolled his thumb over the screen to take the call and slammed the phone against her ear. Lois tried to keep her voice steady.

"Hello?"

* * *

"Lois?" Clark asked, tentative. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me."

Clark hesitated. He thought he heard someone else breathing on the other end, and Lois' voice

not only echoed, it trembled slightly.

"Where are you? Are you all right?"

Lois cleared her throat. "I'm in an underground lab on the corner of . . ."

She stopped and Clark heard another voice-a man's voice-whispering: "34th and Willow."

"34th and Willow," Lois repeated. "I'm underneath a garage."

Clark was silent, but clenched his free hand.

"I've been kidnapped," Lois said, her voice going even softer and lower. "He-I mean, they-they want me to tell you that if _Superman_ doesn't come to bargain with them I'll be dead in four hours. They'll come for Claire, too. Do you understand that, _Clark_?"

The forced emphasis on the two names could only mean one thing, and Clark played along. "How do you want me to contact him?"

Lois was silent a moment. Then her tone changed and she spoke fast. "_Clark_, don't call _Superman_-just get Claire and keep her sa-"

Before she could finish, Clark heard her captor snatch the phone away from her; he then heard a smack, as if she'd been struck. It was all he could do to keep from throwing down the phone and catapulting out the window again-but the male voice he'd heard whispering a moment ago now came on.

"Miss Lane will be sorely missed in this city if her great defender doesn't surrender himself, Mr. Kent," the oily voice said. "I think I don't need to explain my meaning."

"No, you don't," Clark said coldly.

He slammed the receiver down so hard, the plastic cracked. Claire gasped. He whirled; he'd almost forgotten she was there.

"Where is she?" Claire demanded, her blue eyes wide.

Clark didn't answer her right away. His mind raced. Lois in the lab . . . the lab where Leonard and his cronies had developed a weapon against him . . . Claire in danger . . . Leonard himself taking over the city . . . possibly knowing-or at least guessing-who Superman was . . .

"She's been kidnapped," Clark said, forcing his voice to remain calm.

"Kidnapped!" Claire cried. The color drained from her face. Clark quickly grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Hold it, hold it! Listen, you can't lose it on me. Not if you want to help me rescue her, do you understand?"

Claire sucked in her breath. "O-okay."

"Good girl. Now go and get dressed. I'm taking you to your grandmother's."

"To Kansas?" Claire asked, shocked.

"No," Clark said, bracing himself for her horrified reaction. "To Annie's-to the penthouse."

* * *

Claire shivered as Dad's foot landed on the balcony of Grandmother's apartment. The temperatures were icy so high up. Dad set her down on the balcony and grabbed the handle of the sliding door.

"Locked," he muttered. He clenched the handle and pushed down. The lock popped and the handle broke off in his hands. Dad pulled the door back.

"I'll get her a new door," he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. "Go on in, Claire."

She obeyed, tiptoeing inside. As soon as she set her foot in the deep carpet, Annie Sarkowski stumbled into the room, no doubt investigating the opening door. Dressed in silk pajamas with her arms crossed over her chest, she froze in the middle of the room.

"Claire!" she cried. She gathered herself quickly and turned on Dad. "What are _you _doing here, and with _my_ granddaughter? Shouldn't you be down at the Capitol doing what you always insist on doing?"

"You don't like the idea of me saving people, I take it," Dad said rather icily-but he _wasn't_ Dad, Claire realized. He was no longer mild-mannered Clark Kent. He was Superman, and Grandmother had no idea who he was.

"I don't like the idea of aliens interfering in this city," Grandmother snapped. "I'll ask you again, why are you here with my granddaughter?"

"Your daughter has been kidnapped," Dad said coolly. "And Claire is in danger of the same fate. I thought this was the safest place in the city for her."

Grandmother's bony hand-always cold, nails immaculately painted-tightened on Claire's shoulder. To Claire's surprise, the fear was sharp in her voice.

"Lois kidnapped? By whom?"

"That's what I'm going to find out," Dad said, turning back towards the door. "Claire, don't forget the instructions I gave you on the way here."

"No, sir," Claire murmured. "Goodbye."

She was afraid he'd leave her like that, without any assurance everything would be all right, but then, with a small, gentle smile, he motioned for her to come forward. He bent to her eye level.

"Be brave," he whispered, squeezing her arms. "This is your chance to be a heroine."

Claire nodded, unable to speak. He looked up at Annie.

"Let her do what she needs to do. Lois' life-and mine-may depend on it."

Grandmother said nothing, only stared blankly at him. Dad returned to the sliding door. Claire ran after him, watching until she could no longer see him in the Metropolis skyline.

_Now do what Dad told you to do and don't waste a single second. _

She drew herself up and turned to face her grandmother. All her life she'd been intimidated by this distant woman and by the conflict between her and Mom. For now, however, Annie Sarkowski looked completely flabbergasted. A ray of confidence dispelled Claire's nervousness.

"I need to use your phone," she said, hoping she sounded authoritative enough. She was the daughter of Kal-El; she had to act the part. "Can I use the one in your bedroom?"

Grandmother looked for a moment as if she might argue, then waved her hand nervously. "Go. Do what you need to do, just . . . don't involve me."

"I won't," Claire said. She forced herself to walk at a normal pace and not a frantic run, and she shut Grandmother's bedroom door behind her. Then, on second thought, she walked out again. Grandmother, settling down in a chair in the living room, jumped at the sight of her.

"I changed my mind. I'll take it in the kitchen." The truth was, Claire was afraid Grandmother might listen in on another phone. In the bedroom, Claire wouldn't be able to watch her. At least she could stand in the kitchen doorway and see into the living room.

She dialed the number Dad had given her and held her breath while it rang. She peeked into the living room. Grandmother was watching television, smoking a cigarette, and tapping her foot nervously on the floor. Clearly a volatile mix of activities, Claire thought.

"Hello?" a deep, sleepy voice startled her on the other end. Claire almost dropped the phone and scrambled to tighten her grip on it.

"Mr. Wayne?" she whispered. She pulled the kitchen door almost closed, with just a crack so she could keep an eye on her grandmother.

"Yes?" he said, cautious.

"Mr. Wayne, it's me, Claire Kent-you know, Clark Kent's-"

"I know who Claire Kent is," Mr. Wayne said dryly. He cleared his throat. "Why in the world are you calling me at two-thirty in the morning?"

"Because my dad told me to. He needs your help."

"My help?" Mr. Wayne asked, cautious again.

"Yes, sir." Claire peeked at her grandmother, who was pulling heavily on her cigarette. "My mother has been kidnapped-Dad thinks by some of the men she targeted in her article about Mayor Leonard. But it's not Mom they really want-it's Dad-only I suppose they probably want Mom out of the way too-and there've been bombings and the city is in chaos-"

She checked herself; she was rambling and her hands shook. "Dad needs you to meet him at 34th and Willow, here in Metropolis. Mayor Leonard has a weapon that might be able to hurt Dad, and if anything happens to him he's going to need you to back him up. Can you come?"

Mr. Wayne cleared his throat. "Where are you?"

"My grandmother's penthouse-at the top of the Freeman Tower. My dad brought me here."

"How?"

"Excuse me?"

"How did he bring you?"

Claire took a deep breath. "In a blue suit and red cape."

Suddenly Mr. Wayne laughed. Claire drew the phone away from her ear and frowned at it. What did he find so funny?

"I guess you know, then," he said.

"Uh, yes sir."

"What are you wearing?"

"Umm . . ." Claire glanced down at herself. "T-shirt and blue jeans. Why?"

"You'll find out. I'll be there within the hour. Look for me at three."

Claire looked up at the clock. "You can't come any faster than that?"

"I'm not the one faster than a speeding bullet, I'm sorry." He was still chuckling, and she wasn't sure whether to be encouraged or irritated by it. "Until then, Miss Kent."

* * *

Clark tried to think like his enemy. Where did they expect him to strike? Did they expect him to sneak in, or barge in like a bull in a china shop? Come from above, or from the dark alley?

Clark frowned, thinking hard as he moved fast towards the inner city. When he was within a few miles of the garage, he dropped to the ground. If Leonard-or whoever it was that had Lois-kept spies in the neighborhood, they certainly wouldn't see him in the sky. They'd need cat's eyes to catch a glimpse of him in these dark, forbidding streets.

He moved stealthily on foot, every sense focused, until he stood exactly where he'd been this morning when the bombs went off. He firmly believed that the bombings and Lois' kidnapping were somehow connected. Had Leonard planned the bombings-or even ordered them? Clark set his jaw; part of him recoiled at the idea, the thought that a man could be so callous and . . . _evil_.

But then he remembered a cold, ruthless Kryptonian general, and decided that yes, a man _could_ be callous enough to use a bloody crisis to his own advantage.

The garage was just ahead. A single light shone from its closed metal door. Clark moved out of its glare and to the side, narrowing his eyes. Behind the wall, he could see a single guard standing sentinel, eating a sandwich out of a brown paper bag. A semi-automatic hung over his shoulder. Clark wondered if it was armed with the Kryptonite serum.

Clark knelt, took a fistful of gravel, and threw it at the garage door. The pebbles rattled loudly. The guard jumped, grabbed his gun, and called out; immediately two more like him-disheveled, unsavory-looking fellows-emerged from a trapdoor in the middle of the garage. Clark made a mental note of it and tensed as the garage door lifted.

The men crept out, all of them holding their big guns and peering into the darkness. Clark crouched low, waiting . . . and as soon as the three men turned, struck.

The two men who'd crept up from the trapdoor had their heads knocked together; both crumpled, unconscious. The first man-the sandwich guy, Clark christened him-whirled, but before he could fire his gun or call out, Clark decked him in the jaw. The man's teeth rattled in his head and he dropped to the ground.

Clark picked up one of the guns and popped the cartridge out. Sure enough, it was filled with darts, not bullets, each tip filled with a tiny bit of serum. Clark set the cartridge down on the ground and smashed it with his foot, darts and all, then did the same with the other two guns and promptly broke all the firearms over his knee. He did all this so quickly, none of the men had yet begun to stir when he crept into the garage.

There were voices coming up from the trapdoor, so he knew that was where the final action would probably take place. He stared at the concrete floor of the garage, trying to find Lois. Concrete was hard to see through, but he got a dim view of her sitting in the far corner of the underground lab, her arms tied behind her chair.

She wasn't alone, either. Several more ruffians were down there, sitting at the lab table with their suppers, along with a couple of men in suits. Mafia men, Clark guessed. Neither of them were Leonard. Maybe he wasn't involved in this, after all.

So that was the situation: Lois was pretty heavily guarded, and there was only one way to get down there: with a rickety ladder that Clark honestly feared might disintegrate under his weight. Unless, of course, he slammed himself through this concrete floor.

Clark lifted his head with a start. It was risky. It could compromise the whole building and bring it down on the ruffians' heads-and Lois'. But if he moved fast . . .

He jumped to his feet and searched the walls for a fuse box. He found it and flipped all the switches. A dismayed exclamation downstairs made him smile and he quickly headed outside again. The men on the ground were starting to stir.

_Darn it_. He shot up to the roof, planted himself firmly on the ridgepole, and took a deep breath.

The shouting and swearing produced by the power outage woke Lois out of a light doze; she lifted her head and realized she was in complete darkness. She heard DiMaggio's voice close to her ear and felt something hard jabbed in her ribs.

"Don't try any funny business," he hissed, "or you'll be sorry."

"I couldn't even if I wanted to," Lois snapped. "Get that gun out of my side!"

Before he could reply, there was a deafening crash. The goons cried out in terror and then in pain. Lois heard the table overturn and one of the guns went off with a deadly "whoosh." To her relief the fighting continued, raging in the dark.

DiMaggio rammed the gun back into her ribs. Lois winced. He was going to shoot her rather than let her be rescued.

_Fine. Let him. If that's Clark-and I'm pretty sure it is-DiMaggio will be dead in five minutes._

There was a sudden flash of crimson and DiMaggio's pistol went molten in his bare hands. The crime lord screamed in agony and dropped to his knees. Lois felt a second-long surge of heat near her own hands. The zip-tie holding her wrists together dropped away; she fell forward, gasping. Clark scooped her up and sailed through the gaping hole in the lab's concrete ceiling . . .

And dropped like a lead balloon at the hissing report of a dart-gun.

They hit the ground with a crash that knocked the air out of her lungs. Close to a dozen blinding flashlights shone down the hole at them. Clark was on his feet in an instant. He jerked her up, but as he stepped forward to take her in his arms again, he staggered.

"Lois?" he whispered-and then crumpled like a rag doll.

Lois screamed and tried to hold him up. He groaned, pressed one hand to his side. Blood trickled through his fingers. In spite of her best efforts, he sank to the floor, gasping for breath.

"He's down!" someone shouted, and men clambered down the ladder. Lois panicked. One of the dart-guns lay on the floor where someone had dropped it in the recent scuffle. She snatched it up, leaped to her feet, and planted herself in front of Clark. She couldn't see the faces of the men surrounding her but guessed they were no better than the ones Clark just fought.

"I'll kill you if you touch him!" she snapped, turning the gun on them. "I swear, I'll kill you, every one of you!"

"No doubt you would if you could," an eerily familiar voice said. A strong hand grabbed the barrel of the gun, jerking it downward. "But if you fired, it would only leave a nasty puncture wound, no worse than if you got a fishing hook stuck in your skin. Rather insignificant, really. But to the skin and bloodstream of your alien friend, Miss Lane, it's as good-or bad-as poison."

"And he's got at least four of 'em in him," one of the other men boasted.

Lois wanted to skin them both alive, but she thrust the gun against Leonard's chest and fell on her knees again beside Clark. The agony was clear in his drawn, white face. Gently, she rolled him over onto his back and pulled his hand away from his side. Clark drew in a painful breath at her touch.

"It's all right," she whispered, reminding herself never to say his name. "It's all right . . ."

"No, it's not," Leonard snapped. "I hate to do this to you, Miss Lane, but you know too much and suspect even more. It's been downright uncomfortable down at my office, no thanks to you and your nosy interference in my affairs. You were highly effective bait, but now it's almost time to get rid of you-and Superman."

"So much . . . for bargaining," Clark said, a whisper through gritted teeth.

"Yes, well, you fell for that trick," Leonard said coldly. "There'll be no bargains tonight."

He snapped his fingers. Two of the men behind him stepped up and jerked Lois to her feet. In response to her desperate resistance, one of them produced a rope and pinned her arms to her sides. Lois kneed him in the groin. The man crumpled, cursing; his fellow backhanded her in the face. Lois reeled and tasted blood. Clark tried again to get up; the rest of the men pummeled him to the ground.

"I can see the headlines now," Leonard said in a maddening sing-song voice. " 'Superman, taken out by the same terrorists that bombed the State Capitol, thus proving once and for all he wasn't invincible as he led the world to believe.' 'Miss Lois Lane, Pultizer-winning reporter, disappeared without a trace, the possible victim of kidnapping.' It'll be a sad day for the _Daily Planet. _Let's hope Perry White doesn't go digging as deeply as his ill-fated journalist did."

He turned to her captors. "Put her in my car and gag her. The rest of you, to the river. Meet me at my house when you're done."

One of the men went up the ladder before Lois; the other prodded her up the stairs, holding a real gun this time. Lois glanced back, saw Clark being dragged by his arms and legs. He let out a raw, groaning cry before falling back limply. Lois knew he'd fainted.

Tears stung her eyes. So this was how it was all going to end. After all they'd been through together.


	14. Eyes of Fire

**So I checked my email this morning and found a whole bunch of new reviews, all of them with a decidedly panicky tone, haha! Okay, okay, here's the next chapter so the suspense doesn't endanger your physical or mental well-being.**

* * *

"Buckle up," Mr. Wayne said. "This'll be fast."

Claire let out a breath of relief. He was talking in his normal voice, at least. It put her at ease. At first she hadn't recognized him when he showed up on her grandmother's balcony, all swathed in black and with a fearsome-looking helmet on his head. A heavy utility belt filled with all kinds of tools hung around his waist. Only when he flashed Claire a smile behind Grandmother's back did she feel confident that yes, this was her father's friend, and he could be trusted.

Grandmother wasn't so easy to convince.

"I don't hold with these superheroes who flit and fly around Gotham and Metropolis like fiends," she scolded. "When I was young-"

"This is a different age than when you were young," Mr. Wayne replied in an unpleasant, raspy voice Claire didn't at all like. "And if we don't get moving, we'll be in a whole new age."

He motioned to Claire. She stepped forward and he extended a package to her.

"Put them on-fast," he said.

Claire clutched the package to her chest and went to the bathroom, her heart pounding. Now she understood why he'd asked her what she was wearing. Inside the package she found a black, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of matching pants. The tags were still on both. At the bottom she found a little black mask, with a black elastic to hold it to her head.

For a split second she resented it. She was the daughter of Kal-El, not Batman's protegé. She would've preferred red and blue. But then she realized the folly of that. No one could ever know, at least not for years, that Kal-El had a child. Black would disguise her better than anything else, and she had an identity to protect, just like her father did.

Now she sat in Mr. Wayne's car, and it was nothing like the limo she'd ridden in the night of her play. The car lay low to the ground, zipping in and out of every creepy back street at breathtaking speed. She realized she was clasping and unclasping her hands and recognized it as a nervous gesture of her mother's; she sat on them, hoping Mr. Wayne hadn't noticed.

"34th and Willow, he said?" Mr. Wayne asked-again in his normal voice.

"Yes, sir. Dad said it was a garage on the corner."

The car silently swerved to the right. Claire glanced up at the shadowy figure beside her. "If you don't mind my asking . . . what are your powers?"

"My brains," Mr. Wayne replied coolly.

"Good," Claire said, "because I don't think I'm clever enough to help much."

"Well, I figure you've inherited at least some of Superman's strength and a good share of Lois Lane's head," he said. "That ought to be reason enough to drag you along."

Close to the garage, he parked and turned out the lights, plunging them into darkness. They got out; Claire shut her door and found that it closed so softly, even she could barely hear it. She crept behind Mr. Wayne, confident that they both blended in with the night, and caught sight of the garage.

"Looks deserted," Mr. Wayne whispered. "You're sure-"

"Positive," Claire whispered.

They crossed the street. Claire narrowed her eyes and willed herself to look into the garage. It was empty and dark. Mr. Wayne's arm shot out, keeping her from taking another step.

"Look."

She obeyed, turning her head down. There was some mud in the street bearing the clear and all-too-recent imprint of tire treads. Mr. Wayne bent and touched it with his gloved finger.

"A truck was here not ten minutes ago . . . it backed out of the driveway." He stood again, drew Claire closer. "Come on, back to the car. I've got another trick up my sleeve."

She obeyed, glad to be back in the car's security. There was a small computer screen in the dash and he began moving his finger across it.

"It's a GPS," he said in response to her questioning look. "I use it to keep tabs on the Justice League. It's the only tracking device your dad will submit to."

"Justice League?"

"That's what we call our boy's club," Mr. Wayne said dryly, adding more to himself than to her, "only I don't think Diana would appreciate that description."

Claire frowned, puzzled by this, but he interrupted her with a sharp order of, "Sit tight!" The car lurched forward and Claire was thrown back, grasping for her seat belt.

They stopped on the banks of the Metropolis river. They were still in the bad part of town and Claire felt uneasy getting out, but Mr. Wayne moved with stealthy confidence. A few minutes more and surely they'd be able to team up with Dad . . .

Again Mr. Wayne grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop. Claire noticed, just up ahead, a black truck pulling away from the riverbank. Its lights were off as if it was trying to avoid notice, but Claire's sharp eyes could see it as clearly as if it was daylight.

She happened to glance into the churning water lapping against the bank and something, a flash of color far beneath the surface of the water, caught her eye. Claire strained her vision, penetrating the darkness, and let out a choked cry.

"Shh!" Mr. Wayne hissed.

Claire ignored him. Before he could stop her she'd kicked off her shoes and plunged into the dark water. It was surprisingly cold. Claire kicked hard, forced her eyes to focus again. She made out the still form of her father and could tell his arms were tied to his sides.

_Why can't he break free?_

She grabbed the still-loose cape that threatened to drag him to the river bottom. His weight frightened her. Claire had no choice; she stretched out her other hand-the one bound in the stiff brace-and forced her fingers to clench and pull. A dull pain shot through her hand; she ignored it and began dragging Dad to the surface.

Her head emerged and she gasped. Quickly she pushed Dad up and towards Mr. Wayne, who grabbed him by the shoulders and jerked him onto the bank. Spluttering, Claire crawled out of the water and Dad drew a ragged breath.

"Thank God," Mr. Wayne whispered, snapping the cords that pinioned Dad's arms. "What in hell have you gotten yourself into, Kent?"

"Get them out of me," Dad panted, his head feverishly turning from side to side.

"Get what, Dad?" she demanded.

His hand went to his side and Claire's hand followed it. His suit was punctured in four places just below his ribs, and as Claire inspected the tears, she felt a warm, sticky wetness. She gasped, horrified. Dad never bled. Too desperate to be repulsed by her own abilities, she peered into him.

"There are some kind of . . . I don't know, needles? Tiny knives? Four of them, stuck in his side." Claire's sensitive fingertips felt the wounds. "Oh-oh! I can feel this one . . ."

Dad cried out; it startled Claire so badly, she blinked and lost her vision. Mr. Wayne pulled something long and metallic from his belt and handed it to her. Claire gulped.

_Pliers_.

"Get them out," he whispered, urgent. "You can see them-I can't."

Claire took the pliers. She drew a deep breath, said a prayer, and peered deep into her father's skin and muscles. The pliers seemed to glow in the x-ray vision as she carefully reached into the wound for the thin needle end and hoped her father could fight an infection.

As soon as she made her first pull, Dad gasped and stiffened. Mr. Wayne pressed both hands into his shoulders, holding him down.

"It's okay," she whispered, trying to soothe all of them. "It's okay, hold still . . ."

Out came one of the darts along with a nasty spurt of blood and Claire carefully handed it to Mr. Wayne. The others weren't embedded as deeply; she could've probably pulled them out with her fingers if she'd wanted to. When the last dart came loose, Claire almost threw the pliers back at Mr. Wayne and scrambled close to Dad's head.

"They're all out! Are you okay?"

Dad was white; he lifted one shaking hand and tried to touch her face, but missed, letting it fall on her shoulder instead. "It'll wear off . . . thank you."

"You're bleeding pretty bad, Kent," Mr. Wayne said. "Maybe you ought to go the hospi-"

"Oh sure, Wayne," Dad gasped. The sarcasm in his tone was relieving to hear. "Sure . . . what can they do . . . can't even give me blood . . ."

"Well, I can't leave you here to bleed to death," Mr. Wayne muttered.

Claire felt her dad's fingers close over hers. She turned to him and realized he was looking as sternly as he could at her, mustering himself for a command.

"Burn them closed," he whispered.

"Burn what?"

"The blood vessels," Dad said, starting to cough again. "Cauterize them."

Claire almost jumped away from him. "No, Dad . . . no, I can't, I don't know how!"

"This from the girl . . . who told me . . . she couldn't jump ten feet . . ."

They were the same words he'd said when she balked at the idea of jumping out of that tree a few weeks ago. Claire's mouth was dry. Slowly, knowing she should've been moving faster, she crept down to his side again.

Her vision changed and she could see the violent bleeds. All at once she imagined her mother lying here like this, gasping just like Dad was doing now-but Dad was in Claire's place, and it was bitterly cold, and he was saving her life. Claire reached up and took her father's bloody hand, terrified this wouldn't work, that he might die. How could four tiny needles have rendered him so helpless?

_Dear God, please let me have it . . . let me have the gift._

The gift. Not a curse. A gift.

She was nearly blinded by fiercely-hot rays of light from her own eyeballs. She clapped her hands to her temples with a cry. Dad almost crushed her hand. Claire blinked; the fire disappeared and her burning eyes filled with tears.

"Keep at it, Claire, keep at it," Mr. Wayne whispered.

She sobbed and tried again. Dad let out a deep, gut-wrenching scream. The last blood vessel seared shut; Claire dropped her head on Dad's stomach and burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," she wailed, "I'm sorry!"

"You did it," Dad whispered.

Claire lifted her head and saw him smile weakly at her. For now, at least, her exhausted eyes couldn't see very well in the dark, but she ran her fingers over his side and felt only dry, caked blood where the pulsing wounds had been.

_So the pain had been worth it._

"Lois," Dad whispered, his white face filling abruptly with alarm.

"Where is she?" Mr. Wayne demanded.

"I don't know-he didn't say-"

"Who didn't say?" Claire asked.

With an effort, Dad propped himself up on one elbow. He gritted his teeth and rubbed his side. "Leonard. The last thing I knew before I passed out was that she was going into a car . . . he said something about making her disappear."

Mr. Wayne said a bad word.

"Help me up," Dad ordered, sounding more like Superman again. "The only way to make Lois Lane disappear is to kill her and they know it."

"You don't have enough strength to walk down this riverbank, let alone fly!" Mr. Wayne snapped.

He was right; as soon as Claire and Mr. Wayne got him on his feet, Dad staggered. They got him as far as the Batmobile and then he collapsed against it, breathing hard. Claire, holding his hand, felt him break out in a cold sweat.

"It's Kryptonite," he whispered in response to Mr. Wayne's worried questioning. "It'll wear off . . . eventually."

"Surely there's an antidote or something?" Claire asked.

"Yes," Dad said, leaning his head against the car. "The sun."

Claire and Mr. Wayne looked at each other. The sun wouldn't start rising for another couple of hours.

"Do you have _any_ idea where they were taking Mom?" Claire asked.

Dad's eyes were closed, but he frowned deeply, as if trying to think through the continuing pain. "He told them to put her in a car and meet him at his house . . ."

Claire's heart leaped into her throat. She backed away from the vehicle, clenching her hands-even the sore one. "I'll meet you there. I know where Adrienne's house is . . . both of you follow me there as soon as Dad is feeling better-even the _teensiest_ little bit better!"

"No, Claire, wait!" Mr. Wayne called.

"Let her go," Dad said. "She'll know what to do."

Claire flashed him a look of gratitude, then whirled on her heel and took off running as fast as she could. The darkness no longer intimidated her. She'd used her eyes to save her father . . . now she'd use her strength to save her mother, or at least to give Dad and Mr. Wayne the valuable time they needed.

* * *

"Come on, slow-poke, get moving!" Claire snapped at herself. Forcing her legs to move faster, she jumped as high as she could. For several seconds she was as good as flying. Gravity pulled her down again; her feet hit the pavement and off she went again, gaining momentum until she was leaping with invigorating lightness from the tops of parked cars and even a couple of short buildings.

The wealthy neighborhood on the other side of town was quiet, lit only by streetlights, but now Claire pitter-pattered down the sidewalk as stealthily as possible. She knew which was the Leonard mansion only because she'd seen a picture of the house in an article at some point: white, with one of those Mediterranean-style roofs, and a black-railed balcony. She shivered and realized, for the first time, that she was still wet from her dive into the river.

_Well, at least I know I don't have Dad's complete indifference to cold._

The Leonard house was dark except for one light on downstairs, and another light perched on the side of the closed garage. A white Cadillac was parked in front of the garage, but there was no one in sight. Claire pressed herself against the wall of the house, near the curtained window through which the warm light shone, and listened. She heard muffled voices and guessed they were in the basement.

Claire crouched and jumped. Her good hand wrapped around one of the balcony's black rails. She grunted, pulled herself up with an effort, and scrambled over. Sure enough, there was a sliding door. She remembered Dad's treatment of Grandmother's door and pushed down on the handle as hard as she could.

It broke off in her hands with a crunch that scared her out of her mind. There was no accompanying sound, however, to make her think anyone had heard it. She gripped the side of the sliding door, pushed it open, and slid through.

She was in a bedroom, elaborately furnished but empty; the king bed with its fluffy comforter was still made. Claire opened the bedroom door and crept into a dark hallway. She saw a descending staircase at one end and made her way towards it, all while putting together a plan she thought might distract the mayor or whoever it was in the basement, presumably with her mother.

A door opened, spreading light into the hallway. Claire froze. She couldn't run and there was nowhere to hide. The dull thud of something hard and rubbery on a tile floor was enough to set her heart beating at a normal pace again; quickly she ripped off the little black mask and braced herself to face . . .

_Adrienne_.

The other girl was in her pajamas, with messy hair and a half-awake squint. She hobbled into the hall and gasped.

"Claire? What in the world-"

"Shh!" Claire whispered, putting a finger to her lips. "Where's your bedroom?"

Adrienne gulped, nodded towards a door behind Claire. "Right in there. What are you doing here?"

Claire didn't answer; she prodded Adrienne into the bedroom and shut the door behind them both. Adrienne turned on the lights and took in Claire's black, wet clothing. Her eyebrows-darker than the rest of her hair-shot up high in her forehead.

"Adrienne, you're going to think I'm crazy-" Claire began.

"I already do," Adrienne said, but without her old contempt. "Why are you all wet? How did you get in here?"

Claire took a deep breath. "I followed my mom here."

"Your mother?"

"I think-" Claire stopped, knowing how horrible this was going to sound, but Mom's life was at stake. There was no other way to say this. "She's been kidnapped."

Adrienne stared at Claire, clearly not following.

"Your dad brought her here," Claire blurted out.

Adrienne took a clumsy step backwards. "You mean to tell me . . ."

"I know, I wish I didn't have to say something so horrid after the other day! But Adrienne, you've _got_ to help me!" Claire's eyes stung with desperate tears. "I was there when Dad called Mom and she was able to tell him she'd been kidnapped . . . and he-I mean, Superman-went to go and rescue her and got hurt, horribly-"

"Superman?" Adrienne repeated, a look of real concern replacing the antagonistic flicker in her eyes. "He's hurt? I thought he couldn't be!"

"I think he'll be okay," Claire whispered. She was only too relieved that Adrienne didn't seem to notice her near-slip. "But _he_ saw your father and heard him give the order to put Mom in his car. Does that Cadillac belong to him?"

Adrienne didn't answer. She bit her lip, glanced at her iPhone lying on the nearby desk. Claire feared the worst and spoke quickly.

"No, Adrienne, please don't call anyone, _please_."

"I already have," Adrienne whispered. "You met me while I was coming out of the bathroom. Usually I call Dad if I need to get up in the middle of the night. He always-_always_-comes."

"But not tonight?" Claire asked, trying hard not to sound hopeful.

"No." Adrienne looked hard at her. "And I called him more than once. Maybe he isn't at home."

Claire shook her head. "If the Cadillac is his, then he's home. Will you let me go downstairs and have a look around?"

Adrienne hesitated. When she spoke, it was in a slow, worried whisper.

"Yes . . . but I'm coming with you."

* * *

**To "star gazer," who was afraid I'd do something horrid and ghastly to the Last Son of Krypton, I'll make a solemn promise: _I will never, EVER kill off Clark Kent._**** I'd never be able to work up the nerve to do it even if I wanted to. I'd be a pathetic sobbing wreck and then I'd be no good to anybody and I just can't afford to be worthless because I've got a busy life to lead and people depending on me and they can't have me wailing over a character I've killed (and don't even own, hee-hee). So never fear, I won't pull a Steven Moffat on you ;) ****  
**


	15. The Final Conflict

"I can't sit here and wait for dawn," Clark groaned in the Batmobile's passenger seat. "Do you have some water in here?"

Wayne reached into the back seat, opened a small compartment, and handed a stainless steel container to Clark in silence. Clark took it and drank until the container was empty. It was a significant amount of water; when he finally set it down he had to gasp for breath.

"Better?" Wayne asked.

"Better," Clark said, rolling his head from side to side. "At least I don't feel like I've been stuck on a Kryptonian ship for twenty-four hours anymore."

"So that's what it felt like?"

"More or less." Clark peered through the car's tinted windows. "It's almost four o'clock . . . sun won't come up for another hour or so."

"Sorry, I can't bring you to the other side of the world for sunbathing," Wayne said dryly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Clark said with a weak smile. "I don't need to go to the other side of the world. Flying just a little way across the Atlantic would do me some good."

Wayne's eyes, glinting through his mask, were skeptical. "You really think you have the strength to try it?"

"The key word is 'try,' " Clark said. He opened the car door and forced himself to stand. His limbs were heavy as lead. The wet cape felt heavier, seeming to drag down his weakened frame. Wayne watched him from the driver's seat.

"Stay here," Clark said as firmly as he could manage. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

"And then?"

Clark drew a deep breath and slowly stepped away from the Batmobile. His legs held his own weight now, at least, even if the pain did still linger in his side. "And then we're following Claire to Leonard's house."

He closed his fists and his eyes, and willed himself to go skyward.

* * *

Lois sat on the floor of the Leonard mansion's junk-filled basement. Not only were her hands once again tied behind her back, but her ankles were bound and a strip of cloth was secured around her mouth. Propped up against the concrete wall between a washer and a laundry bin, she watched while Leonard treated the severe burns on Paul DiMaggio's hands.

"This'll have to do until you get into Connecticut," Leonard was whispering.

The crime-lord, leaning against a pool table, drew in a sharp, pained breath as Leonard rubbed some salve on his laser-burned hands. "I don't understand why we don't put a bullet through her head and end it all right now."

Lois had been bracing herself for that possibility ever since they stuffed her into the trunk of Leonard's Cadillac. She didn't expect to live through the night or at least through tomorrow, so the mayor's answer didn't surprise her at all.

"I don't want her killed anywhere close to Metropolis," he said with cold deliberation. "We can make Superman's death and hers look like simple coincidence if we play our cards right-you know that."

"It won't be-easy-" DiMaggio groaned. "Where did you get this gauze anyway? You've got a huge roll-ow!-of it."

"I've had all manner of bandages around ever since Adrienne was hurt," Leonard muttered. "Even Miss Lane ought to know a thing or two about nursing traumatized children."

Lois' chest tightened. Leonard looked away quickly, as if he at least felt regret where Claire was concerned. His phone had already rung twice while they were down here and she'd heard him say something about Adrienne calling him for help sometimes in the middle of the night. He hadn't gone upstairs, though. Adrienne would have to fend for herself tonight.

The hoodlums who brought Lois here were long gone and replaced by men in impeccable suits: DiMaggio's right-hand men. Lois guessed they would accompany her and DiMaggio into Connecticut and kill her once they were safely away from Metropolis.

"I got a text that worries me, too," Leonard whispered. "They just found the governor-alive-at the State Capitol."

DiMaggio cursed. "That can't be! They planted the bomb exactly where-"

"Well, somehow he made it. He's seriously hurt, of course, but it puts a serious wrench in our plan."

The basement door opened, and from where Lois sat she could see a stream of light burst into the darkness. All the men whirled; the two in the suits pointed tiny pistols up at the intruder. Leonard's upturned face flooded with alarm, then with irritation.

"What are you doing out of bed?" he snapped, and as a whispered aside to the Mafia men, "Put those away, quick."

"Dad, what are you doing down here?" a child's voice inquired. Lois heard the rubbery thud of crutches against the stairs. "Hello, Mr. DiMaggio. Oh, are you hurt?"

"Just a little scratch, Miss Adrienne," DiMaggio said with forced cheer. "I'll be all right. You should be in bed, though . . . walking all this way on those crutches must've been exhausting."

"Go back to bed, Adrienne," Leonard ordered.

Lois didn't know whether to put up a fuss and attract Adrienne's attention, or keep quiet. She recalled Claire coming home from school earlier this week, beside herself with delight over her friendly breakthrough with the girl. If Adrienne could be alerted . . . but then again, Lois didn't want to drag an innocent child into this. She sat back, resolving to keep silent.

"I called you _twice_, Dad," Adrienne went on in a plaintive tone, still coming down the stairs. "You never came and I almost fell out of bed trying to get to the bathroom."

"I've been very busy," Leonard said impatiently. "I've had a lot to deal with today, no thanks to the terrorist attacks. I'll come and look in on you in a minute, I promise."

Lois' eye was caught by a widening sliver of moonlight on the other side of the basement. She squinted, curious. Adrienne had come in through the kitchen entrance, but there was another doorway on the other side of the basement that opened into the Leonards' yard. A slim figure in jet black slipped through the crack and pulled the door shut. Then it crept, crouching close to the ground like a hunted animal, through the piles of junk.

Leonard was pushing Adrienne back up the stairs. "Now look, you've got a long walk back to your room and I don't have the time to spare right now bringing you back. Off you go-and stay there, do you understand?"

A small, cold hand touched Lois' knee. By now she'd recognized the pale young face creeping towards her. Shielded as they were, and with Leonard and his men distracted by Adrienne, Claire was able to slide a pair of kitchen scissors between her mother's hands, cutting the zip-tie there and then the one at her feet. Lois pulled the gag out of her mouth.

"Okay, I'll go," Adrienne said reluctantly. "But I _am_ wiped out. Could I get something to eat in the kitchen first?"

"Yes, have a snack and then _go back to bed!_"

"Dad, are you angry with me?" Adrienne asked.

Claire put a finger to her lips and motioned for Lois to follow her, but made a pressing motion with her hand: _Stay low_. Lois nodded. DiMaggio was fiddling with his bandages and the suited men were whispering together, their backs to them. Leonard was on the stairs with Adrienne.

"No, I'm not angry with you," Leonard said, softening his tone. "But I have business to take care of and you're interrupting."

Claire opened the basement door and Lois slipped out. Claire was just coming through herself when Paul DiMaggio let out a panicked shout.

"D- it, she's escaping! Get her!"

"Quick!" Claire cried, slamming the basement door shut. Lois grabbed her hand and they took off at a run across the street, ducking behind the nearest house. A gun fired. The bullet whizzed slammed into the brick wall close to Lois' shoulder.

"This way!" Claire whispered, dragging her along at a startling speed.

Lois heard tires squealing. "They're coming after us."

"That's okay, I've come by the back roads, they won't be able to find us."

But the Cadillac wasn't their only pursuer. As they fled the subdivision, Lois heard footsteps behind them; she looked over her shoulder and saw men very much like the ones she'd seen in the garage gaining on them. They must've been lying in wait somewhere in the neighborhood, ready for this possibility. One of them shouted into a walkie-talkie.

"I've located them! I'm almost to the corner of Five Oaks and Morstan."

Another gunshot. This time Claire cried out, clutching her upper arm. Motherly instinct took over; Lois pulled Claire behind her and faced the approaching men.

"It's okay, Mom-it just grazed me, I think," Claire gasped.

"Listen to me, Claire-you run or fly or jump or whatever it is you can do. _Go!_"

"I'm not leaving you!" Claire cried just as the man with the walkie-talkie came up. Her small, tight fist shot out, knocking a small pistol out of his hand. Taking advantage of his confusion, Lois delivered her own punch to his head; he reeled, holding his jaw. Lois snatched up the gun and fired at his companions.

One of them crumpled; another screamed, clutching his shoulder. A fourth man, still barreling towards them, dropped his gun in pain and horror as Claire's eyes turned the firearm to molten sludge.

"_Now_ we can run!" Claire said, a note of triumph in her shaky voice. "Go, go, go!"

Still holding the pistol, Lois grabbed Claire's hand and they took off. They burst through an alley and Claire dragged Lois to the right, towards a grey streak of dawn.

A white car slammed into the street from an alley up ahead. Lois and Claire both staggered to a halt and turned to run the other way. Leonard and the suited men scrambled out.

"Stop right where you are, or I'll shoot the girl!" Leonard shouted.

Lois froze. The feeling of Claire squeezing her hand, the sound of the girl gasping for breath, made the choice easy. Lois turned around to face their pursuers.

"Fine," she called. "You win, Leonard."

Leonard's finger fiddled with his trigger; he approached slowly. "Throw the gun down, Miss Lane."

Lois clenched her fingers around the gun for a second. If she moved fast she could shoot him. She had at least three more bullets left . . .

There was a startled exclamation from the suited men waiting beside the Cadillac. Both Lois and the mayor glimpsed a shadowy form pinning one of them to the ground. The other man scrambled to help his friend, only to be struck by another figure swooping down like an eagle. Lois' breath caught in her throat at the sight of the billowing red cape.

"Game's up, Leonard!" Clark shouted.

"Hold it, we've got a slight difficulty on the way," Batman snapped.

Sure enough, more of Leonard's ruffians appeared, led now by the disheveled DiMaggio. Lois lifted her pistol again and fired. One man fell. Wayne was in their midst now, a black and grey blur none of the men could easily target. Lois turned the pistol well away from him and targeted the men on the edge of the brawl.

DiMaggio, hiding behind a trashcan, fired his pistol at Clark. The bullet-_a real bullet_, Lois thought, _thank God!_-glanced off the red emblem on Clark's chest. Unfazed and completely ignoring DiMaggio, Clark advanced on the stunned Leonard, throwing his fist behind his head when one of the hoodlums tried to tackle him from behind.

"Surrender, Leonard," he said in a low, commanding voice. "Put that gun down-now."

No doubt being face-to-face with Superman-and an angry Superman, at that-was terrifying. For a man who had planned for so long and was now watching it all crumble before his eyes, though, it was also infuriating. There were about two yards between them. Leonard figured he could act fast enough in the time it would take for Superman to be on top of him.

He whirled back to face the person he knew was most important to both Superman and to Lois Lane. He fired at Claire.

* * *

**One more chapter to go!**


	16. After Night Comes Day

**Seriously, y'all crack me up. The suspense of another cliffhanger chapter was a bit much, methinks. Sorry I didn't update last night...I was busy writing the prequel ;) **

* * *

Claire saw Mayor Leonard point his gun at her head. She was too terrified to move.

"_No!_" Dad shouted.

"BOOM!" went Mayor Leonard's gun.

"BANG!" went Mom's pistol.

Claire felt the bullet zip through her damp curls, stirred by a breeze away from her head. She saw Leonard press his hand to his chest. Lights were coming on all down the street; the people living in the townhouses all around them were waking up, startled by the gunshots and brawling. In the growing light, Claire saw something dark and wet trickle through Leonard's fingers.

Dad, within inches of slamming into Leonard by the time Mom fired, caught the mayor and carefully lowered him to the street. Mom pulled Claire against her and held her close, turning her away from the sight. Claire realized her mother trembled from head to foot.

"Are you all right?" Mom asked shakily, pressing her hands against Claire's head as if searching for any wounds.

"I'm okay," Claire whispered. She tried to look over her shoulder. Dad was standing up; Leonard was very still. Closer to the Cadillac, Mr. Wayne gave one of the ruffians a hard kick in the stomach and surveyed his captives-all alive, but either unconscious, stunned, or cowering.

He and Dad exchanged a single look. Dad nodded, and Mr. Wayne pulled a length of slender, strong rope from one of the compartments in his belt. He began tying the conscious men together, even collecting the quaking DiMaggio from behind his trashcan and pairing him up with one of the groggy suited men.

From the surrounding homes, men and women in their pajamas hurried to investigate and, once they'd taken in the situation, to help or call the police. Dad quickly moved towards Mom and Claire. He still looked pale, Claire thought, and he was breathing hard-unusual for him-but he looked so much better than he did the last time she saw him.

"He's dead," he whispered, pulling both of them. "Are you all right?"

Mom drew a shuddering breath; she was trying hard not to cry. "I thought you were dead . . ."

"No, I'm going to be fine. Claire saw to that."

"I didn't know what to do! I had to protect her-I _had_ to-"

"And any mother would've done what you did," Dad said, looking her in the eye. "He had to have seen you aim at him, he knew he was pushing his luck. It's all right, I promise."

Claire grabbed his hand. "How did you get better so fast?"

Dad smiled. "The sun. I told you it was the only antidote."

"You went into space?"

"No, I just went and found the dawn." Dad glanced around at the wakening neighborhood and turned to Mom. "Wait until the police get here and you can tell them everything that happened. I may be here a while. When you get free, take Claire back to your mother's-"

"My mother's?" Mom asked, shocked.

"-and stay there until I can pick you up," Dad finished. He drew away from them, giving Mom's hand a squeeze and Claire a gentle ruffle of her curls, then turned back to face the now-quiet battlefield.

* * *

Before long, the National Guard and state police-but _not_ Leonard's corrupt city police-arrived. The sight of the two leaders of the famed Justice League standing guard over the bruised, bloodied ruffians was good enough for them; the sight of a dead Leonard, however, was a shock.

Claire, exhausted by this point and only half-aware of her surroundings, sat on the curb while the police took Mom's story. Mom spoke confidently and gave the facts as concisely as if she'd observed it all from a safe vantage point, and not as one of the victims.

One of the officers even came to Claire, squatting down to her level with a notepad, and questioned her for a few minutes. She didn't like it; her heart pounded the whole time and she spoke slowly, trying not give away anything about her dad and yet sure the officer must think her an idiot. She was glad when he smiled, thanked her, and offered to give her and Mom a ride away from the scene.

By dawn, the mayor's home was surrounded. Leonard's study was raided and the contents delivered to the FBI. His plot with DiMaggio to take over the city was discovered and thoroughly investigated; Leonard's cronies were removed and replaced, eventually, by honest men. Thanks to Superman's efforts at the State Capitol before his attention was diverted by Lois Lane's kidnapping, the governor and many members of the legislature were indeed rescued from the ruins of the State Capitol. Some semblance of stability slowly returned to Metropolis.

Adrienne Leonard was questioned by the state police, though she really had no information to give other than a description of what she'd witnessed in the basement. No friend was there to comfort her when they told her that her father was dead, or how he died. An aunt was sent for; she picked Adrienne up and took her to her own home not far from the Leonards'.

A couple of days later-a Saturday-her aunt's doorbell rang. Adrienne was in the living room, sitting on a window seat with her leg propped up, thinking long and hard about her father's betrayal-because what else could you call it when your father pretended to be one kind of person and then died because he tried to be a murderer?-when her aunt walked in and said, "Adrienne, you have a visitor."

Adrienne almost fell off the seat. There, dressed in a baby-pink shirt and neat blue jeans, her dark curls pulled up in a bouncy ponytail, stood Claire Kent. Adrienne's aunt left them alone and Claire stepped forward.

She looked-and felt-very unsure of herself, so different from the urgent black-clad figure that had startled Adrienne in the hallway the other night. Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously.

"Adrienne? I-I couldn't stay away-we found out where you'd gone-I had to come and see you."

Adrienne took a deep breath. Part of her-the part that still clung to her old ways-knew she should hate Claire Kent. Lois Lane had killed Adrienne's father, after all. But if what the police said was true-and after what she'd seen in the basement, how could she doubt it?-then her father had tried to kill Claire herself . . . _and_ Miss Lane . . . _and_ Superman . . . _and_ everybody in the State Capitol.

How could she hate Claire Kent?

Adrienne choked and held out her hand. Claire gently took it.

"I'm sorry," Adrienne whispered. "You don't know how sorry I am. They told me everything about my father . . . you could've been killed . . ."

"Don't go there, Adrienne," Claire begged. "I really didn't come here to talk about _that_ part of it. I wanted to thank you for helping me in the basement. You didn't have to. Even if you didn't want to turn me in you could've left me to fend for myself. I couldn't have gotten my mom free if it hadn't been for you."

Adrienne tried to smile and wiped her eyes. "I was so scared when Mr. DiMaggio saw you sneaking out. I was afraid they'd catch you. I don't think my dad realized I'd been distracting him on purpose. I'm glad now that he didn't."

Claire patted her shoulder, and Adrienne found that more comforting than any of the awkward things her aunt and uncle had said to her since she came here.

"I'll come visit you again, if you'd like," Claire said softly. "My mom wants to see you at some point, too. It doesn't have to be anytime soon-she'd understand-"

Adrienne gulped, shook her head. "No, no, I want her to come. If you're anything like her, she must be lovely. I-I don't hold _it_ against her, if you know what I mean."

Claire nodded. "I can't stay long today. My grandmother brought me here, but she has another appointment and has to bring me back to my parents' office before she goes. She's parked outside."

Adrienne's eyes widened. "Your grandmother's Ms. Sarkowski, right? I've met her before. She and-and my dad-they knew each other."

"Yes, I met your dad for the first time at Grandmother's. Last Thanksgiving. That seems like a long time ago."

Adrienne sighed. "Well, anyway . . . what's it like having her for a grandmother?"

Claire lifted one dark eyebrow with a smirk. "I think it just might start getting easier. She and my Mom are, well . . . I think they might get along a little better now that Mom knows Grandmother let me help Superman and Grandmother knows Superman isn't so bad after all."

Adrienne smiled. "I could've told her _that_."

Claire giggled. She glanced out the window, must've seen her grandmother signalling for her to hurry. "I'd better go. I'll come and see you next week, okay? And I'll bring my mom, if your aunt and uncle don't mind."

"They won't, and neither will I," Adrienne said quietly. "And bring your dad. I'd like to meet him, too."

Claire, giving her a sideways hug, laughed-a merry, tinkling sound. "Oh, I don't know . . . you might find him kind of boring."

"I'd still like to meet him," Adrienne said in earnest. "Be thankful you _have_ a daddy, Claire-and a nice one."

Claire's pretty little face softened. She nodded, rubbed Adrienne's arm without a word, and with a parting smile hurried outside. Adrienne watched her skipping down the front walk towards her grandmother's car and found herself eager for the day when she could run and jump and play with Claire Kent.

* * *

"How was Adrienne?" Grandmother asked when Claire got into the car.

"Much better than I'd expected," Claire said, buckling her seat belt. "She's not mad at me and she's not mad at Mom. In fact, she _wants_ to meet Mom. I figure that's a good sign. Mom could really cheer her up, don't you think?"

"As much as the woman who killed her father could possibly cheer her," Grandmother said dryly. "Not that I fault Lois for it-I'd rip off the head of any man who tried to harm you, Martha Claire-but I still can hardly believe a man like William Leonard was capable of trying to take over Metropolis."

Claire decided to keep her mouth shut. Grandmother kept talking.

"I suppose Superman and Catman-"

"_Batman_, Grandmother, _Batman_," Claire corrected.

"Batman, Fatman, Catman-it all runs together," Grandmother muttered-but she laughed a little at herself. "Anyway, I suppose they do come in handy-sometimes."

"Oh come on, Grandmother, where's your sense of adventure?" Claire teased.

"Smothered in my sense of practicality," Grandmother retorted.

Claire just threw her head back and laughed, and to her delight, Grandmother's prim mouth with its bright-red lipstick puckered in a suppressed smile.

Grandmother dropped her off at the _Daily Planet _office; for the thousandth time in her life, with her laptop bag slung over her shoulder, Claire made the familiar trek up to the bull-pen. She found her parents in Dad's cubicle; Mom leaned over Dad's shoulder, pointing at something on his laptop screen and half-scolding him.

"No, no, no, you've got to download _this _driver, not that one, and you've got to make sure . . . hold on a minute, Clark, what operating system do you even have on this dinosaur?"

"I don't know-some kind of cat. Lion? Mountain Lion?" Dad turned his laptop over with genuine confusion. He wasn't playing a part right now, that was for sure. "I hate computers."

"Hi there!" Claire said, peeking over the top of the cubicle. "You've got Lion, Dad."

He grinned at her. "Thanks, Smarty-Pants."

"Did you see Adrienne?" Mom asked, pushing Dad's hands off the keyboard and doing the technical work herself.

"Yes, ma'am," Claire said with a cheerful nod. "She's going to be all right. She wants to see both of you."

"Wonderful," Mom said, smiling with clear relief. She pressed a button and drew back from the computer with her hands on her hips. "There you go, Mr. Kent. Now plug in that printer and you're all set."

"Just a minute," Dad said. He reached into his pocket and handed a slip of paper to Claire. "A little something for you, Miss Claire. Go read it in your mother's cubicle."

Claire took it, puzzled, caught a flicker merriment in his blue eyes. She held the folded paper in her palm until she and Mom got to the cubicle, then sat down in her usual corner and unfolded the paper.

_To Miss Martha C. Kent,_

_In recognition for your outstanding bravery this past week, your relationship with our leader, and your interesting potential, you are invited to our next meeting-provided you don't breathe a WORD about it to ANYBODY (except the greatly-respected Mrs. Clark Kent AKA Ms. Lois Lane) and you don't reveal the location of the Bat Cave. EVER. I'm very particular about that last detail. _

_Sincerely yours,_

_B.W._

_Senior Member of the JLA_

_P.S. Tell your father he's not allowed to brag on you EXCESSIVELY, or we'll kick him out. _

Claire let out a squeal and quickly clapped both hands over her mouth. Mom slowly turned in her swivel chair and dropped her chin in her hand with a look of fake nonchalance.

"What are you yelping about?" she asked, smiling mischievously.

"Nothing," Claire whispered, giggling behind her hands. "Nothing at all."

"Mm-hmm." Mom scooted her chair forward and snatched the paper out of Claire's hand. She skimmed it, eyebrows raised. A real, warm smile washed over her face.

"Well, the girl of two worlds deserves no less," she whispered.

THE END

* * *

**And there you have it! Whooo-hooo! I went back and forth with possible scenarios for the battle's end, but finally decided Lois needed her heroic moment in defending her daughter. She found herself in the same place as Clark did with General Zod. ****And as you can see I left a little room for a possible sequel! Who knows . . . it's an idea I might fiddle with in the future.**

**But for now, I'm hard at work on the prequel. Some fun things I'm exploring: Lois' relationship with her mother, Clark's first meeting with Bruce Wayne (though I'm not going very deep at all into _Batman vs. Superman_ territory, I'll leave that to Snyder and Co.), Martha and Lois' friendship, and, of course, Baby Claire. And I thought of something else the other day that sent the plot bunnies on a rampage: what ever ended up happening to that creep Woodburn? You know, the journalist who threw Lois under the bus and told the whole world she probably knew who Kal-El really was? What if Woodburn (with his nosy ways) posed a threat to Clark's secret? Not a threat like Leonard, of course, but snoops like him could make Clark and Lois' life very difficult, don't you think? _Hmmm..._ **

**Anyway, thank y'all soooooo much for all the reviews and kind words, and I hope to start posting here again very soon!**


End file.
